


Symbiosis

by ofaclassicalmind



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medicine, Alternate Universe - Military, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Duty, Eventual Smut, Family, Forgiveness, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Honor, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Love, Multi, Mutual Pining, Redemption, Sacrifice, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2020-05-14 14:27:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 122,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19275178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofaclassicalmind/pseuds/ofaclassicalmind
Summary: "Symbiosis: (noun, biology) A relationship between two types of animal or plant in which each provides for the other the conditions necessary for its continued existence." - Cambridge English DictionaryTensions in the United States are running high, and at the center of it all, one famous family struggles to maintain its financial power and reputation through a carefully coordinated alliance with a former military commander... Tywin Lannister's newly-appointed chief of surgery, Major Brienne Tarth. Medical/Political AU. Rebooted.Note: Rating has upped to E.





	1. Pride's Gone Out the Window - Brienne I

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here we are again! Rebooting this guy, since I was unhappy with the way I had started it. This has been brewing since before I finished 'Chemical Bonds' and I'm *psyched* to share it! It will feature darker content than my previous story, much of which is based on what I've seen the people I know and love go through. I've combed through as many AUs for this pairing as I can, and there's nothing out there that matches what I plan to do. Get hype. :)
> 
> Chapters will be from Jaime/Brienne's perspective, as before, with a few exceptions here and there. Each one will be labeled with the character whose POV we will be experiencing, as well as a song lyric from the song that inspired the events in that chapter months and months ago. Will update regularly.
> 
> Please review! Thank you for reading!

The legal documents were all neatly stacked on the desk in their own perfectly placed piles, their austerity only offset by the outlandish fountain pen laying in front of them; the object literally had the golden head of a lion carved into its crimson cap, each eye jeweled with a ruby. She smiled as if none of it fazed her, but the beauty all around her made her feel much less so.

“If you’re trying to intimidate me, it’s not going to work,” Brienne told him. “Dr. Stark drew up that will herself and accounted for every imaginable loophole your lawyers could possibly use against it. I am their rightful legal guardian.”

Tywin leaned back in his chair, examining her.

“Who said anything about the children?” he asked, feigning confusion. “We’re here to talk about your future with Baelor Hospital.”

Whatever trap he was laying, she wanted no part of it.

“I’m not one of your employees, nor do I ever wish to be,” she declared. “I’ll be entering private practice next year.”

He smirked.

“Major Tarth, you are keenly aware of your situation and your rights, I’ll give you that,” he said evenly. “I was told you are a loyal creature, and I respect you for it, despite to whom that loyalty may be.” He leaned forward, his smirk evaporating. “I was also told that you are intelligent, and willing to protect the ones you love at any cost. Was I poorly informed?”

Her gut clenched, but she swallowed hard and steadied herself, meeting his stare.

“What do you want from me, Dr. Lannister?” she asked bluntly. “I would hate for you to underestimate my ability to handle candor based solely on my gender.”

The older gentleman all but grinned.

“Very well,” he said with an air of pleasure. “I’m sure you’ve heard of the scandal surrounding my family in recent months...?”

Who hadn’t? It was all over the news; she saw something about it at least twice every time she checked her social media accounts, and their faces were on every newsstand in D.C. Just that morning, as she had driven to the hospital for the meeting Tywin himself had requested, she had heard a newer, more salacious rumor of an incestuous relationship she’d rather not think about. A person would have to be both deaf _and_ blind to have missed it all.

It had started a few months before, when Tywin Lannister’s illustrious daughter, the untouchable Cersei Baratheon, had been arrested for trafficking and using oxycodone, along with her eldest son, Joffrey. While she had made bail, Joffrey had not due to his juvenile status, and the entire situation was only exacerbated by the fact that she was the First Lady of the United States. Though Brienne hadn’t been in touch with the Baratheons since Renly’s funeral, she was well aware of the press coverage Robert was receiving, and how poorly he performed under pressure. Her father had even said he’d be surprised if something worse didn’t happen to the man before the year was out.

Why was Tywin Lannister, of all people, mentioning this to _her?_

“I am aware of it,” she confirmed, “but I still don’t see how that gives me a role to play at this hospital.”

Tywin stood, attempting to look casual by placing his hands in his pants pockets.

“There will come a time when the world forgets the rainy, slippery pavement that claimed the lives of Vice President Stark and his wife last week,” he purred. When she almost rolled her eyes, he gave her a look of warning. “Their eldest and youngest sons were an unfortunate loss, and while you may not believe it, they were never meant to be involved.”

“But you’re admitting that you _were_ involved.”

A tense moment of silence passed between them.

“The circumstances surrounding the situation can only be improved,” he said calmly, though she could tell he was livid at her comment. “The three remaining Stark children will need support, and as restitution for their losses, I will hire you as my Chief of Surgery. Your every need will be met, and your salary more than enough to support your new family as well as your father.”

Her breath caught in her throat; how did he know that she had decided to move back into Evenfall with her father so he could help her with Bran?

“And why would I agree to that?” she inquired instead.

“Because you’ll be doing me a personal favor.”

She furrowed her eyebrows in doubt, crossing her legs and leaning back in the ridiculously comfortable barrel chair. Her unaffected response ruffled his feathers; it was evident in the way he took his hands out of his pockets and pressed his knuckles into the surface of his desk.

“Last week, my son was discharged after twelve months of inpatient rehabilitation,” Tywin persisted. “It would seem he has his _problems_ under control for the time being, but he will require another year of licensure probation before he can practice.”

Oh, no. She did _not_ like the way this was going.

“During those twelve months, Jaime will continue his rehabilitation through outpatient programs while assisting on surgeries as a surgery technician. It is my belief that exposure to his field will encourage him to remain on his path to recovery,” he finished.

“You want me to babysit the Kingslayer while I do the real work.”

Tywin smiled.

“Though your expertise is renowned in the army, Major Tarth, your reputation is lesser known amongst those of us at a civilian level,” he explained. “You would benefit from some publicity. This arrangement would lend you the reputation you need in order to earn a reasonable living for your family. Without it, you might find your circumstances... Well, let’s just say some things might be more difficult to bear.”

The threat in his words certainly wasn't veiled; it was wearing a goddamned tiara.

“Why would I risk losing my license to defend a Lannister?” she questioned. “There must be other, more qualified people to take care of this for you.”

His face dissolved into a frown that thundered through to her very marrow.

“I fear I’ve given you the wrong impression,” he began. “This arrangement is meant to protect _my_ reputation and _my_ family. Jaime is the future of this hospital and this corporation. His surgical skills are among the best in the country. If the public sees him working with you, a military commander with an established connection to the Starks, the storm surrounding both the accident and my witless daughter will eventually fade.” At this comment, he paused for breath; apparently the idea of his daughter’s treachery weighed more heavily upon him than he let on. “It is the ideal connection for my family, and it would be easier on the Stark children if things were more quickly forgotten.”

She couldn’t argue with the end of his statement, and she hated him for it. Despite that truth, she felt a hint of rebellion pulse through her heart.

The Starks wouldn’t need her if Catelyn was still alive.

“And if I said no?” she dared. “What would you do?”

Tywin merely blinked.

“In the next hour, I could call in a few debts and ensure that you would never serve in our military again by lunchtime,” he said with restraint. “You’d get to keep the Starks, of course, but without a veteran’s income _or_ a surgeon’s license, their livelihood would be at stake. Social Services would have to get involved, especially since the boy has such a debilitating handicap.”

When his gaze turned back to her, her fury could have powered the city for a night.

“And if your son fails?"

“Don’t let him,” Tywin said simply. “And believe me, he’ll try. I’ve never met someone who craves failure as much as he does.”

“I’m sure he’d be glad to know you have so much faith in him,” she scoffed.

He narrowed his eyes at her sarcasm.

“You’re a surprising specimen, major,” he mused. “Former Senator Tyrell certainly taught you well.”

“Olenna taught me a few things,” she agreed, “but the army taught me more.”

Tywin raised his eyebrows before stepping forward and offering her the ornate pen. She took it, noticing the weight of the barrel in the ligaments of her wrist.

“One year supervising him,” she attested, “but do I remain Chief of Surgery when he returns? Or do you set me aside like the tool I am in this situation?”

He barely restrained a sigh.

“I may not be the most amiable man, major, but I _do_ consider myself to be a smart one,” he conceded. “Jaime has more experience, but he is impulsive and irrational. You, however, are not. The position will be yours for as long as you want it.”

For the first time since she’d entered the room, she considered him. He was as tall as her, his black suit and Baelor Hospital red tie likely the second-most expensive things in the room behind the pen she was cradling in her fingers. His formerly golden hair was now white and thinning with age, combed back in a way that drew attention away from the wrinkles years of bitterness had etched onto his face.

“Shall we go left to right?” she suggested shortly, reaching toward the stack of papers on the left corner of the desk.

His nostrils flared in repressed excitement as he gracefully sat behind his desk, placing his glasses on the edge of his straight-edged nose and organizing everything for her to sign. After a few minutes, they found an easy rhythm; he would hand her the next papers, explain what they meant, and she would sign them. It was excruciatingly simple, but after several more forms, she was losing the mental capacity it required of her, and there was still another half-stack for them to sift through.

They were so focused on their task, in fact, that they hadn’t heard the door open behind them.

“I take it she said yes, then?” a smooth voice sounded from behind them.

She watched as Tywin regarded the intruder over the rim of his glasses, but made no move to greet him.

“What can I do for you, Jaime?”

Though her body didn’t move away from the paperwork, she glanced over her shoulder at him.

He really was as handsome as the media made him out to be. Despite how much she and her family hated the Lannisters, Margaery would even make the occasional offhand comment about Jaime’s chiseled features when his face would sometimes grace the evening news during their weekly dinners. His jaw-length hair was a dark blonde that was only complimented by his maroon suit jacket, and his eyes were an unfair shade of sea-foam green that made her miss the grasses of Tarth.

But when she saw his face screw up in dismay at what was no doubt her appearance, she turned to face Tywin again as he handed her another packet of stapled papers. There were more important things for her to worry about than the opinions of the man scowling behind her, namely three children who would be depending on her from now on.

“Is that a woman?” she heard him ask incredulously.

Brienne gritted her teeth against the insult, even though she could feel Tywin’s emerald green eyes on her, gauging her reaction.

“ _She_ is your new Chief of Surgery,” he stated, his deep voice rumbling through the air. “Major Tarth will be supervising the entire department beginning Monday, and you will be assisting her in any capacity she deems necessary.”

Oh, she liked the way he said that. Olenna _had_ mentioned Tywin was a master with words.

“When exactly will I be returning to that position?” Jaime probed, stepping forward to stand over Brienne; she ignored him.

“You won’t be,” Tywin proclaimed. “Major Tarth will remain in this position for as long as it suits her. After the mistakes you’ve made, I’m sure you’ll understand why I trust her judgment and abilities over your own.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jaime’s fists clench, his knuckles going white.

“And what will I be to this organization once I have my license back?” he bit out. “A puppet? Or another pretty face to grace the billboards along the interstate?”

She could feel her face flushing in embarrassment as Tywin removed his glasses to stare at Jaime; it was obvious she shouldn’t be witnessing this exchange, so she kept her eyes fixed on the line above which she should have been signing her name.

“You are my son, and you will do as I see fit,” Tywin said in a raised voice, “provided you can stay sober long enough.”

“I’ve been sober for a year,” Jaime spat, stepping so close to the desk his legs pressed into the mahogany edge. “Ninety days in rehab, nine months in a fucking halfway house... How much longer will it take to prove to you that I’m done with it?!”

“A lifetime!” Tywin finally boomed, startling her from her work altogether. “Do you really think rehab is all there is to it? That weekly AA meetings will solve all of your problems?” The older man held out his hands, gesturing to the room around them. “This organization will be yours someday. Everything I’ve ever worked for will rest in your hands. I only hope that before I—”

“I won’t do it,” Jaime said emphatically, jamming a finger down on the desktop, right next to the dwindling stack of papers. “I refuse to drown behind this desk while the world moves on around me, and _especially_ not when my family needs me most.”

“And what family would that be?” his father accused coolly. “I see no ring on your finger. No wife by your side. No children to speak of...”

The younger man gulped down the hateful words he meant to retort with, his eyes falling to the floor as he seethed with silent rage.

“Someday, if you’re lucky enough to find those things, you’ll understand the importance of power,” Tywin said with ease. “With power comes reputation, and with reputation, safety. Without one pillar, the other two crumble. Your sister should serve as the perfect example of that.”

Stealing a glance at Jaime, she saw him set his jaw, forcing himself to calm down.

“Cersei has lost her reputation, and with it, her power,” Tywin lectured. “If she isn’t careful, she may lose her safety as well. You however, have already hit the bottom, and are more than aware of the only direction that lies before you.”

For a long moment, the two men said nothing as they stared at one another, and Brienne was made terribly aware of the fact that she hadn’t signed a paper for a few minutes when Jaime’s eyes met hers. They were filled with agony and resentment, but he held his right hand out to her anyway, and she put down the pen and took it nonchalantly, noticing the strength and confidence in his grip.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Tarth,” he said in a hollow tone. “Congratulations on your new job.”

“Yes, congratulations, _major_ ,” Tywin corrected, giving Jaime a scolding look more appropriate for a mortified preschooler than a grown man.

“Thank you,” she said, releasing his hand more quickly than needed. “I’ll see you Monday at six.”

With one last glare at his father, he nodded at her, storming out of the office and shutting the door more loudly than necessary behind him.

“I apologize for my son’s behavior,” Tywin told her, the weariness of his voice hardly giving her any reason to doubt him. “His sister's release has challenged his sobriety in a way none of us imagined it would.”

“I understand,” was all she said in response, taking the last few papers and signing the lines he had highlighted.

She closed the pen with a satisfying click and stood, holding it out to him.

“If that’s everything—”

“Of course,” Tywin agreed, taking the pen and moving to stand, his eyes now level with her own. “You have a lot to do. I should hope four days is enough time for them to get settled...?”

“More than enough,” she affirmed, eager to go home and prepare the house. “Thank you.”

“I’ll see you Monday, then.”

Brienne grabbed her bag and, bowing her head in acknowledgment, made to leave the room. As she opened the door, she suddenly spotted the sizeable portrait hanging by the bookcase and felt her breath drawn from her lungs.

An ethereal woman was sitting in the same barrel chair Brienne had vacated only moments ago, her breathtaking eyes overshadowed only by the small, vulnerable smile that graced her lips. She wore a necklace whose delicate lion’s head pendant bore emeralds for eyes, unlike the ruby ones of the pen she’d used. Her features were undeniably stunning, yes, but Brienne could also see kindness there, and an unyielding strength.

She was so captivated by this portrait she had failed to notice Tywin standing beside her.

“My late wife, Joanna,” he said proudly. “She worked as a charge nurse at this hospital for fourteen years. It was how we met.” He took a deep breath. “I had this commissioned shortly before she died from surgical complications.”

As Brienne observed him, she realized he was speaking in earnest for the first time since she had stepped into his office.

“What sort of complications?” she murmured, curious as to what could have killed the woman who’d stolen the heart of such an infamous beast.

Tywin’s shoulders fell a little, a tired sigh spilling from his mouth.

“My youngest son, Tyrion, required an emergency C-section,” he told her, his eyes unmoving from those staring back at them. “She hemorrhaged halfway through the procedure and died on the operating table.”

God, what a terrible thing it must have been to witness life and death occurring in the same room.

“At least you have your son.”

Tywin chuckled; an empty, resounding sound.

“Yes,” he jeered, “I have Tyrion. A drunken, lecherous little fool who’s resented everything I’ve ever given him.  I was able to save _him_ , but I couldn’t save her.”

It was then she understood with perfect clarity: Tywin had been the one to perform the surgery, for whatever reason, and was unable to save the person he loved most in the world. Of all people, Brienne knew how that felt.

A thousand unwelcome memories flitted through her mind in an instant; Renly, charred and obliterated, gasping his last breath in her arms under the desert sun; Margaery’s deafening wails when she’d learned of Loras’s suicide; the Starks' funeral a few days ago, and how red Sansa’s face had remained through the service...

Though she loathed the man standing beside her for what he’d done to the children she adored, she finally understood how he’d become so cold.

“Nothing’s more hateful than failing to protect the ones you love,” she breathed at last.

He looked at her in mild surprise, but didn’t speak. Instead, he bowed his head at her, stalking back toward his desk chair. With one last glimpse at Nurse Joanna, she walked through the door and out of the lion’s den.


	2. Consequences that I've Rendered - Jaime I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime learns to adjust to his new circumstances.

_“... And yet, the president himself has failed to make a formal statement on the matter, despite the fact that the incident occurred only months after his reelection. The first lady is set to appear before the press tonight for the first time since the arrest, and we can only hope that she’ll explain how their son, Joffrey, became involved in such a horrendous scheme. Meanwhile, sources say Mrs. Baratheon’s brother, Dr. Jaime Lannister, will be resuming his position as a general surgeon within the year under the direction of Tywin Lannister’s new Chief of Surgery, whose name has not been released to the public. Neither Dr. Lannister nor his son were available for comment at this time, however it has been reported that—”_

Jaime turned off the television, tossing the remote onto the coffee table more forcefully than he intended.

“The glass on that table is breakable, you know,” Tyrion said, cocking an eyebrow.

Still bitter from the ire he’d felt earlier that day, Jaime stood, walking into the kitchen and opening a cupboard. Though his brother was small in stature, Jaime could hear the couch springs creak under Tyrion’s weight as he got up and the patter of small feet as they followed him around the bar. Rather than turn and face the only conscience he seemed to have since the start of his recovery, Jaime pulled a glass from the shelf, trying to ignore the bottle of tequila his fingers brushed against as he did so.

“I take it the meeting didn’t go over well...” Tyrion inferred.

He didn’t answer, closing the cabinet and filling the glass with water. As the silence stretched on, he sipped from his glass, staring at the floor.

“Jaime...” 

With a sigh, he lifted his head and met his brother’s stare.

“How do _you_ think it went?” he ground out. “I walked in and he scolded me like a child in front of my new supervisor, who just happens to be the ugliest woman alive." He glanced into the bottom of his glass, swirling its contents in thought. "Don't get me wrong, she was very polite about it, but..."

He trailed off, and to his surprise, Tyrion chortled.

“What?” Jaime growled.

His little brother shook his head, a smile on his face.

“You’re telling me that our dear father humiliated you in front of someone you needed to impress, and then when she chooses _not_ to sneer at you, a luxury I have _never_ been afforded, you’re offended by it?”

Shame suddenly sobered him more thoroughly than a cold shower ever could.

He hadn’t thought about the fact that Tyrion had been dealing with similar situations since he could remember... And, if he was honest with himself, the woman didn’t have to ignore it. She could have laughed in his face like everyone else he knew, or worse; she could have given him the sympathetic looks he’d received from all the other people he’d met since he began his rehabilitation.

“Thank you,” he murmured. “I’m not good at...”

Tyrion nodded when he couldn’t finish his sentence, understanding what he wanted to say.

“That’s why you’re staying here, isn’t it?” the younger sibling attested, gesturing to the grandiose apartment around them. “You make me feel better about _my_ self, and I make you think about people other than _your_ self.”

Jaime felt his lips curl into a small smile as the two of them started back toward the couch, where he haphazardly crossed his bare feet on the coffee table as Tyrion gave him a playful smirk.

“What does she look like?” Tyrion inquired.

Sinking further down into the cushions, glass in hand, Jaime recalled the face he’d seen staring back at him from his mother’s barrel chair.

“She’s pale,” he recalled, “and blonde. Not our sort of blonde, though; brighter, like dry champagne.”

“How very poetic of you,” Tyrion sardonically assessed.

At this, Jaime frowned.

“Do you want me to describe her to you or not?”

Tyrion defensively raised his hands in surrender.

“Her mouth is huge,” Jaime charged on, “and she’s got this scar just above her upper lip. Her nose is harsh, like it’s been broken a few times, and she’s got freckles, but not enough to help her other features. The only decent thing about her entire face was her eyes.”

The weight of Tyrion's body shifted as he swung his short legs up so that they stretched out between them.

“What color were they?” Tyrion probed.

The tone in his brother’s voice made Jaime throw his head against the back of the sofa as he tried to picture them, but he couldn’t recollect their color.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But they were... Fair, I guess. Somber, but pure, like she wasn’t trying to hide anything from me.”

“It must be nice to see sincerity in a woman's eyes, for a change.”

Jaime shot his brother a look of warning, but Tyrion didn’t relent, fixing him with a perceptive stare.

“Have you heard from her lately?” he asked.

Rather than answer him, Jaime’s eyes focused blankly into the space in front of him, vividly recalling emerald eyes and the giggle of a teenage girl he thought he’d known so many years ago. When the familiar itch for a drink began to creep back into his gut at those memories, he shook his head, ridding himself of them.

“No,” he told Tyrion. “I mean, yes, she’s called, dozens of times, but I haven’t answered. If I do, I might...”

He looked at his brother then, hoping his face said everything.

“And... Tommen?” Tyrion continued. “Myrcella?”

At the mention of their names, Jaime smiled a little.

“They called last night,” he confessed. “We talked for about an hour. Tommen’s taking it well, but Myrcella’s worried sick about it all. She said Robert’s filing for divorce. He wants full custody of the kids, and at this point, I don’t think I can blame him.”

“He probably knows,” Tyrion declared.

Jaime’s fearful expression met his brother’s resigned one.

“It’s the only explanation for why he’s dragging his feet with the public statement,” Tyrion explained. “He’s trying to devise a good solution to his problems as a collective whole, but I’m not sure divorce is going to help him. Being in his custody would certainly protect them from any sort of genetic testing, but Cersei always gets what she wants, especially when it comes to her children.”

Tyrion’s words made his heart race, his anxiety climbing to new heights.

“She wouldn’t...”

“No, I don’t think she would,” Tyrion agreed, “especially since it would jeopardize her own future. Your secret is safe... For now, anyway.”

After a few moments of unbearable silence, Tyrion grabbed the remote from the coffee table, turning the television on for some white noise. He was about to turn it to a different channel so Jaime wouldn’t have to hear the news, but when he saw a familiar face on the screen—

“Wait,” Jaime commanded, leaning forward.

_“...would seem that they’ve found their own silver lining in the wake of their parents’ fatal car collision last week. Major Brienne Tarth, a close friend of Dr. Catelyn Stark, has undertaken legal guardianship of the children, and was seen earlier this evening in the company of both the children and Former Senator Tyrell. Her granddaughter, Margaery, accompanied them to...”_

As Jaime watched the screen closely, he saw the paparazzi trying to get photos of the mismatched group, the children keeping their faces down, Major Tarth towering above them, her arms guiding the girls to the sizeable black SUV at the curb. She had to be at least as tall as he was, if not an inch or two taller...

Margaery was pushing the Stark boy in his wheelchair, and as Jaime crushed the guilt that flooded him at the sight, he noticed Olenna swatting her arms at the photographers and reporters behind them, nearly knocking a few of them out in the process. He expected no less of the feisty old woman.

But his gaze drew back to Major Tarth as she easily lifted Bran out of his wheelchair and into the backseat as though the boy weighed nothing. She closed the door before the photographers could harass him, folded the chair, and gingerly tucked it in the back of the vehicle, where Margaery secured it for her. Setting her jaw against the media, Major Tarth walked back to the front passenger door, giving the reporters in her way a withering look, her astonishing eyes piercing them all.

“Blue,” Jaime whispered to himself.

“Hmm?” Tyrion lilted. “What’s that?”

Placing his empty glass on the coffee table, Jaime rose to his feet, nodding toward the television screen.

“Her eyes are blue.”

Rather than face his brother’s condescending remarks, he walked to his bedroom, shutting the door behind him and removing the button-down shirt and suit pants he’d refused to shed when he got back. As he climbed into bed with only his unwelcome memories for company, he forced himself to go through his disappointingly short list of reasons to keep recovering, staring at the ceiling for an hour until he finally fell into a restless sleep. Like the rest of the world, he dreamed, but his dreams were haunted by the same green eyes he’d always seen, her breathy deceptions scantily clad as picturesque promises, each one disrobing itself as he woke time and time again.

* * *

The weekend felt shorter than usual, but as his alarm woke him at five o’clock on Monday morning, he realized just how desperately he’d missed rising early. He all but jumped out of bed and strode to his dresser, donning a plain white tee and a new pair of underwear, then opened the drawer filled with mint green scrubs. As though they would give him all the integrity he’d somehow lost along the way, he reverently dressed himself in a pair. The light fabric felt cool against his skin, and he smiled at the way it brushed against his calves as he walked to the closet and got out his trusty pair of old Nike’s and black compression socks.

Later, he made his way to the kitchen to grab a protein bar and realized it was only 5:15. The drive to the hospital would only take five minutes from Tyrion’s apartment, but if he left now, he could grab some coffee from the twenty-four hour deli beside the cafeteria.

After he had filed into the employee parking deck like everyone else, he swiped his badge at the double doors and started for the stairs as he had for ten consecutive years before—

The feeling of his fingernails biting into his palms quickly diverted his thoughts.

Two flights later, he was level with Hot Pie’s Deli, and his hands instantly relaxed when the aroma of freshly brewed coffee rushed against his olfactory receptors. He placed his satchel in a chair where he could keep an eye on it, and made his way to stand in line behind a few residents from nearby Georgetown University’s School of Medicine. At one point, he had been one of those students, and he found himself smiling yet again as he stepped up to the counter, the day feeling fresh and new as he placed his order. Ros, the manager, even went out of her way to make his drink herself, saying how glad she was to see him back at work.

Perhaps today wouldn’t be so terrible after all.

As Jaime walked to the end of the counter, waiting for his name to be called, he heard an exhalation of breath from behind him.

“I don’t think coffee is the wisest choice."

Every positive feeling he had experienced since he woke up was extinguished as he turned to face his father, who was wearing yet another expensive suit Jaime had never seen.

“On the contrary, I think it’s the perfect choice for the busy day I’m sure you’ve scheduled _for_ me.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed.

“Your brother’s cynicism is beginning to wear off on you,” he rumbled, his invisible feathers ruffling. “Be careful there.”

Though Jaime wanted to make another snide remark, he kept it to himself.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he tested casually instead.

His father rolled his shoulders back, accentuating his height.

“I felt the need to remind you that you are not the only unhappy party in this arrangement,” he instructed, “and that regardless of how your first day back at this hospital goes, every detail will be reported back to me. At six o’clock, both you and Major Tarth will meet me in my office before you start your shift, and we’ll reconvene this evening to see if the expectations we set are reasonable.”

Jaime’s neck muscles cramped, he was clenching his teeth so hard.

“Decaf café au lait for Jaime?” a sugary voice echoed.

The shock on Tywin’s face as he realized his recovering alcoholic of a son had chosen decaf coffee of his own volition gave Jaime a sense of pride as he sauntered over to the counter, gratefully nodding at Ros before picking up the steaming mug.

“Well, then,” Jaime said after a cautious sip, glancing back at his father as though he couldn’t be fazed. “I’ll see you in your office in thirty minutes.”

Tywin blinked, then turned on his heel and left. Releasing a breath, Jaime made his way back to the table, gently placing the mug and saucer on the table as he started to fish his headphones out of his satchel; he needed music now more than he needed the warmth of his coffee.

“Mind if I join you?”

Looking up, he realized it was _her_ in the same mint green scrubs every operation room team member wore, her sapphire blue eyes only accentuated by the mild dark circles beneath them. Her light blonde hair was pulled back in a low bun that screamed military, and her rigid posture would have put his father’s to shame.

Damn, she really was a little taller than him.

Rather than say no, he shrugged, so she took her backpack off and propped it up on the chair across from him as he sat down. He studied her as she made her way over to the line of people, tugging out his headphones and plugging them into his phone. Alone with their belongings, he scrutinized the interesting backpack she’d brought to work. It was tan, like most army gear, but smaller than those typically taken overseas. How long had she served? She seemed young for an accomplished military surgeon.

Turning his attention to his music instead, he tapped one of his favorite playlists and let the melody seep into his bones as he drank his coffee. He heard her grunt over the spellbinding sound of Robert Plant’s high-pitched wails as she sat down, her large, clearly-labeled latte resting in a paper to-go cup in front of her. Realizing he hadn’t made a great first impression, he removed an earbud, taking note of the tired way in which she rubbed her face.

“Long night?” he ventured.

She fixed him with a hard stare, her sharp eyes flashing to the coffee in front of him, as she drew a breath to speak.

Ah. So she was going to make the same comment his father had about the coffee.

“Drugs or alcohol?”

He felt his face go slack at her lack of pretense before he remembered to shut his gaping mouth, swallowing hard.

“You really don’t screw around, do you?” 

Her oversized lips tightened into a thin line at this, but she didn’t budge.

“Alcohol,” he declared. “Five years of it. My sister did the drugs.”

She considered him, then bowed her head in acknowledgment, her face relaxing slightly.

“And you know why you’re here...” she continued.

He felt his cheek muscles twitch in frustration.

“I believe we _both_ know why I’m here,” he verified, “but why are _you_ here? What on earth could my father have against you?”

Her eyes darkened at his words, and rather than answer him, she took a sip of her latte. It was then he remembered what he’d seen on the television Wednesday night; the tender way she’d treated those children.

“Oh, of course,” he hastily recovered. “Forgive me. I didn’t realize—”  

“What?” she bit out.

The stern tone she’d used made him feel like an annoying schoolboy, and he hated it.

“I was only going to say that being a parent is hard,” he said evenly, “especially if you’ve never had kids before.”

“And how do you know I don't have children?” she challenged.

“It’s fairly obvious.”

“Because I’m ugly?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but thought better of it.

“I am well aware of how I look,” she accused, her brow furrowed with acidity, “but in the military and in our profession, something as ridiculous as the symmetry of your face doesn’t matter, as long as you’re good,” she emphasized. “Think about it: You have the looks, Kingslayer. The name, the money, the power... And yet none of it mattered in the end, because you weren’t _good_. Should I assume you have children based on something as trivial as your facial features?”

Rather than answer what he’d been charged with in her eyes, he took a few sips of his coffee, enjoying the way the heat of it scorched the tip of his impulsive tongue. She pulled out her tablet more abrasively than necessary and, after attaching her keyboard, began plugging away at something.

The following twenty minutes were spent in wretched silence, from the time they gathered their things to the second they walked out of the elevator and into Tywin’s office.

“Perfect timing,” Tywin greeted, gesturing to the two mismatched chairs. “Please, have a seat.”

They did so, Jaime sitting in the armchair so their ‘guest of honor’ could have his mother’s barrel chair.

“So,” Tywin began, sitting at his desk, “we’re all aware of the situation at hand, and there’s no use pretending otherwise. I wanted to make it perfectly clear that the future of this arrangement no longer rests with me. From now on, you are each responsible for your own success. Is that understood?”

They nodded, and Jaime stole a glance at her, but her eyes didn’t move from his father.

“Major, you will be making his schedule from now on, since it will have to coincide with your own,” Tywin said, and Jaime felt her tense. “Any surgery you perform, he must be there to assist you. Jaime...”

He tilted his chin up, acknowledging the old man.

“When you arrive at this facility, you will report to her office to plan your day,” he directed. “You are to follow her lead in any task you perform together, as is expected of a surgical technician. If you step outside your limits, you will also be _paid_ as a surgery technician. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you of why you’re here, or why you’ll be watched very closely.”

Jaime sank further into the chair, the indignity only deepening his desire for _it_... And he’d only been awake for an hour.

Fuck.

The rest of the brief meeting was a negotiation of details, specifically how many hours she would be required to work each week, and how many of those Jaime was expected to work alongside her. It was tedious, and he hardly listened to any of it, feigning attentiveness now and then, knowing his days wouldn’t be his own.

They left the office shortly after, and he immediately started planning the remainder of his day in his mind. He would be heading into a six-hour procedure with her first, scheduled for about 6:30, after which they’d likely eat lunch... Well, he could speak for the hunger of humans, but beasts, he wasn’t so certain.

The elevator was beginning to take its time as more people arrived to start their shifts, and he could see how unsettled she was as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. They finally reached her plain, understated office, and she slipped into the worn leather chair behind her desk, resting her forehead in her hands. He wordlessly sat in the hard plastic chair across from her, looking behind him at the clock that had been hung over the door; it was 6:20, so they only had about five minutes before they needed to head to the OR.

“It was decaf, by the way,” he said, trying to fill the room with anything except silence, “in case you were wondering.”

She simply shrugged.

“It’s not my job to know your boundaries,” she said blatantly, “unless you have trouble keeping to them, in which case, please, let me know. I can’t...”

As she trailed off, he felt a familiar fire in his belly.

“You can’t have me fucking it up for you,” he finished for her, his words laced with resentment. “I get it. You're not the first person to—”

“This isn’t going to work if you keep assuming you know what I’m about to say,” she insisted. “Believe it or not, I don’t spend every moment in your presence thinking about you.”

Her pigheadedness was _unbearable_.

“Then what _were_ you about to say?” he muttered. “I’d be delighted to hear it.”

For a second, something in the stare she’d fixed him with softened, and he could have sworn she seemed sad. Her lips parted, as though she wanted to say something, but she pressed them together once more, apparently changing her mind.

“We’d better go,” she murmured, steadily rising to her feet and unzipping one of the numerous pockets of her tactical backpack to withdraw a plain, navy blue surgical cap.

He nodded, still unsure of what the shift in her demeanor had been about, but following her into the hall nonetheless. As they walked, he trailed behind, watching as she expertly tied her cap over her low bun, the dexterity of her fingers evident as she did so.

They made their way into the scrub room, and on the speakers in the OR he could hear a familiar 80s playlist reverberating through to where they stood.

“What’s the procedure?” he questioned as an afterthought, trying to alleviate some of the tension they had generated.

“It’s a total femoral replacement due to osteosarcoma,” she said in a level voice. “Should be fairly straightforward. The patient’s only twenty-three.”

Wait. He was a _general_ surgeon. Intestines, gallbladders, kidneys, vasculature... Anything in the abdominal cavity or chest was his specialty. Not—

“Do you mean to tell me my father put me with an _orthopedic_ surgeon?” he asked.

Her eyes flew to his, the hand that was brushing under her fingernails freezing in place.

“You mean to tell me you _aren't?"_ she replied, just as shocked.

He knew his father wanted to make him pay for his choices, but damn, it was going to be a _long_ twelve months.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the fun continues...
> 
> FYI, the previous chapter was inspired by Duran Duran's 'Ordinary World', while this chapter was inspired by Staind's 'It's Been Awhile'.
> 
> Also: Shoutout to lannisteroftarth on Tumblr for helping me with surgical questions that I can't answer on my own, like how long a total femoral replacement actually takes in the operating room, then walking me through the procedure. You're the best!
> 
> Healthcare Blurb:  
> Osteosarcoma - A bone cancer that takes healthy bone tissue and replaces it with immature bone tissue.  
> Femoral - Having to do with the femur  
> Orthopedic surgeons deal with bones and muscle, while general surgeons deal with the abdominal cavity.
> 
> (I'm an almost-nursing student who will eventually either concentrate on nuclear medicine or midwifery: Radioactivity and babies are equal parts beautiful and terrifying, so I suppose I'll figure out which I prefer toward the end of my degree. As a result of my studies, the science of what is mentioned in this fic will be, for the most part, entirely accurate and rarely take liberties.)


	3. The Sea I'm Sinkin' in - Brienne II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne takes a risk at work, and the Starks adjust to life without their parents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you read, skim these. They help!
> 
> Healthcare Infobit (FYI, these will be very rare): 
> 
> Proximal - Portion of a limb or bone closest to the center of the body  
> OR - Operating room  
> Acetabulum - Hip/femur joint  
> Hypovolemia - Too little fluid or blood in the body; can lead to multiple-organ failure  
> Telemetry monitor - A five-lead (sometimes more) system attached to a patient's chest that monitors the function of their heart  
> Tachycardia - A heart rate of over 120 beats per minute, when the heart is working too hard; common in patients who experience loss of blood of fluid  
> Ventricular tachycardia - When the ventricles of the heart pump blood more quickly than the atria supply it; if left untreated, it can lead to cardiac arrest and death  
> Waveforms - The physical wave on a chart that represents the electrical activity of the heart  
> Rapid response team - A team of nurses in every hospital that respond to patients with a high potential to code (die)  
> Normal, healthy blood pressure: 110-119/60-79 mmHg  
> Normal, healthy heart rate: 60-100 beats per minute
> 
> Casting Note: In my mind, the amazing 6’3” Stellan Skårsgard plays Selwyn Tarth. His soft but strong demeanor makes him the perfect person to play Brienne’s father in this story.

The steady beeps of monitors droned over the music as they worked, and Brienne felt herself smiling when Nurse Shae groaned at the sound of another Phil Collins song. Quickly stepping away from the patient, she switched it to a 70s playlist, exclaiming with happiness when the intro to Boston’s ‘More than a Feeling’ began to play.

“Sorry,” she said in her thick German accent, returning to Jaime’s side. Shae glanced across the patient at Nurse Gilly, whose eyebrows were raised in question. “I can only take so much Phil Collins. Whiny men annoy me.”

At this, Brienne outright grinned, and Gilly laughed.

“All men whine, Shae,” Gilly affirmed through her mask. “You just haven’t found one worth the noise yet.”

“Men are _pigs,”_ she countered, giving a wary look at Jaime. “No offense.”

To Brienne’s surprise, Jaime chuckled.

“None taken,” he responded, taking the instrument Brienne held out to him. “It’s hard to be offended by the truth.”

The nurses cackled at his joke, but the demeaning tone in his voice disturbed her a little. Rather than linger on the thought, Brienne returned her attention to the patient, holding out her hand for the next instrument.

As the playlist and the ceaseless bleep of machines eventually synced into their own version of a peculiar band, silence settled between them all while they focused on removing what they hadn’t of the young woman’s femur. Jaime wheeled the stainless steel tray table over to her once it was out, and Brienne examined the way the long bone had warped from immature growth, the mass toward the proximal region altogether terrifying in its size.

“She’s lucky it hasn’t spread yet,” she murmured, placing it on the tray.

“I know,” Gilly agreed. “She’s not much older than Sansa.”

Brienne’s gaze met hers, brows furrowed.

“My husband is friends with Jon,” the younger woman explained. “They trained for the marine corps together. Sam didn’t last very long, though.” Even through the folds of her surgical mask, Brienne could see Gilly’s proud smile. “He’s pre-med now, but ever since then, Sam’s been a lot closer to the Starks than his own family. They’ve only ever been kind to us.” She paused to think. “Ned made Little Sam’s crib, and Dr. Stark made something else for him... She brought it to the baby shower... Oh, what was it?” she asked Shae.

“I have no idea,” the other woman said, sounding offended that the occasion had even been recollected.

As Brienne listened, the conversation about Ned and Catelyn’s generosity grounded her in a way she hadn’t thought possible. Her hands steadying once more, she took the custom-fit femur replacement from Jaime and began working it into its place, jumping a little when—

“Oh, of course!” Gilly exclaimed. “She made him a dreamcatcher! I almost forgot. He managed to get a hold of it and tore it to pieces when—”

Shae looked up at her suddenly.

“I actually _do_ remember that,” she declared, the heavy accent adding a tone of nonchalance to her statement as she spoke to Brienne. “Dr. Stark made it by hand, and I told her it was the loveliest thing I’d ever seen in this country. And the colors...” Sighing with pleasure, she nodded toward the taller woman. “Parts of it were as blue as your eyes, which are gorgeous, by the way,” she finished with a wink.

Warmth flooded Brienne at the compliment to her appearance, which was something she was wholly unaccustomed to, and it took her a moment to respond.

“Thank you,” she conceded, glancing back down at how she’d placed the femur. She held out her hand for the next instrument, but nothing touched her glove. Looking at Jaime, she noticed he was staring at her like he’d never seen her before. Huffing with exasperation, she reached across the patient and took the instrument herself, which resulted in an exchange of curious expressions between the two nurses.

“How are they doing?” Gilly asked. “The children?”

Her fingers stilled at Gilly’s question, again at a loss for words as the events of that first night flickered through her mind.

_They had moved into Evenfall easily enough, but the bickering that had been involved was brutal. It was decided that Bran’s room would be away from the girls’ bedrooms, since an eleven-year-old boy shouldn’t have to share a bathroom with his sisters. Arya, however, was about to start her first year of high school in a month, and her soon-to-be junior sister was already demanding more space, which translated into the largest upstairs bedroom because it had a bathroom with enough drawers for all her beauty products. Selwyn had been situating Bran into his new room, and Brienne had been tidying up her bedroom downstairs when the argument broke out in the upstairs hallway._

_“But it’s the only one with a bathtub!” Arya’s voice rang out from upstairs. “That’s not fair. Just because you wear makeup doesn’t mean you can hog the—”_

_“I’m not hogging_ anything _!” Sansa defended. “I need more space for my things. It’s not a matter of—”_

"Dad _would have let me_ _have the tub,” Arya insisted._

_Realizing this fight, like all the others, would continue until they were blue in the face, Brienne left her room and headed for the stairs._

_“Arya, this isn’t about that,” the older sister moaned. “You only want this bedroom because I do!”_

_“I do not!”_

_“You’ve always wanted what I want because you knew that Mom would give it to you just so you’d stop your griping!”_

_The creak as she reached the top of the stairs quieted them, their faces turning to look at her, she-wolves running amok across their features. Arya spoke first._

_“Tell her that I—”_

_Brienne simply raised a hand and closed her eyes, brushing the rest of Arya’s statement aside._

_“I’m going to ask you a question,” she posed, “and I want you to answer me honestly.” Opening her eyes, she saw a shadow of worry on their faces. “Can you do that for me?”_

_Glancing at one another, the sisters nodded, turning back to her._

_“What would your mother and father do about this argument?”_

_When neither Sansa nor Arya answered her, choosing to stare at their shoes instead, she sighed._

_“Dad would tell them that it was the guest room,” a younger, more certain voice came from behind her. “That neither of them could have it.”_

_Looking over her shoulder, she saw the boy, almost a young man now, wheeling himself to her side as her father observed the conversation from Bran’s doorway._

_“And what would your mother have said?” she pondered aloud._

_Bran smiled._

_“She would have agreed with him.”_

_As she turned to face the girls again, she cocked an eyebrow._

_“Does that sound fair to you, given the circumstances?” she asked them._

_The shame in their faces as they sheepishly peeked at one another again was enough to wring an emotion out of her that she couldn’t quite name, but it was a welcome pressure in her chest and broke over her face in a smile as the girls nodded. She immediately stepped between them, wrapping an arm around each sister and pulling them close as they folded their arms around her._

_“I’m sorry,” Sansa apologized into her chest._

_“Me too,” said Arya._

_Brienne pulled back slightly to look down at both of them, trying to ignore how much they resembled Ned and Catelyn._

_“You’re going to argue,” she told them, “and that’s okay. You always have, and you always will. But for now, you need to choose your battles.” Glancing at Bran, she made it clear that she was talking to him too. “We all miss them, and we’re all hurting. There’s no point in hurting each other.”_

_Arya nodded, and Sansa tried to smile, though her eyes were full of tears. As the girls moved into the room, rolling their travel luggage full of clothes back into the hallway, Bran made his way to the stairs, her father following close behind._

_“We’re going to go watch the fireflies from the porch swing,” Bran said cheerfully. “Would you like to come?”_

_She saw the girls entering different bedrooms with their belongings, then nodded at him, noting the grin that spread across his face. He hoisted himself out of his chair and into the stair lift she’d installed the moment she had come home from her meeting with Tywin, Selwyn carefully folding his wheelchair as he stood beside her. They watched as the lift carried Bran to the first level of the house._

_“You made that look easy,” her father mused, giving her a sidelong glance._

_Brienne smirked._

_“I had a good teacher.”_

_The feeling of his arm wrapping around her and squeezing her shoulder made her feel like maybe, just maybe, things would be okay._

Swallowing hard, Brienne realized she had yet to say anything. Deciding to go with honesty, she worked the new femur into the reformed acetabulum.

“They’ve been better,” she said carefully. “Bran’s handling it more easily than the girls are, but I expected that.”

“He’s more familiar with grief,” Shae agreed with a shrug. “It makes sense.”

Jaime accidentally dropped the forceps he was putting on the tray, and Brienne watched suspiciously as he cursed under his breath, kicking them to the side.

“Well, I’m sure you’re doing a wonderful job,” Gilly continued. “Dr. Stark said that if I ever needed a babysitter, I'd be lucky to find someone half as good as you were.”

A fond memory of two-year-old Arya, spaghetti all over her face as she threw meatballs at her astonished and overly dramatic sister, made her smile. These nurses were good at that—making her smile.

Perhaps working here, with these women, wouldn’t be so bad after all.

The blood pressure monitor began to beep in a different pattern, but when Brienne peeked at it, it said 97/59. For such a lengthy procedure, those numbers weren’t nearly as terrible as they could have been. She nodded at Jaime, who turned to press the silence button.

It was when Brienne was fixing the new femur into the reformed knee joint that the monitor screeched. The four of them looked at the values: 89/49, and dropping.

“Shit,” Brienne hissed.

“Should I get Dr. Baelish?” Shae asked worriedly. “He took an early lunch—”

Brienne shook her head, silently cursing the anesthesiologist for leaving so soon. But when she glanced at the clock—

“It’s too late in the procedure for it to be the anesthesia,” she thought out loud, meeting Jaime’s fearful eyes. “It’s hypovolemia.”

Shae hastened to a glass cabinet straightaway, grabbing another bag of saline and hanging it without being told to do so. Brienne kept her eyes trained on the monitor screen as Shae pressed the buttons on the IV pump to increase the rate of both the saline and the nearly empty blood transfusion. Gilly took one look at the label on the blood bag, murmuring the type to herself as she turned to Brienne.

“Will one be enough to finish?” she hurriedly asked, stepping away and reaching behind herself to undo her gown.

Brienne nodded.

“We need one now, but—”

“I’ll tell them to pull another in case we need it,” Gilly finished for her, removing her gloves and rolling her gown away from her body. “It can stay in the cooler.”

The telemetry monitor started flashing a warning alongside the patient’s blood pressure as Gilly darted out the double doors.

Blood pressure 79/38, heart rate 107. The girl’s heart had been pumping at an unchanged rate of about 67 beats per minute for the last five hours.

Her desperate gaze flew to Jaime, and she could see the disbelief through his mask.

“You can’t,” was all he said.

Ignoring him, she wrapped her long fingers around the femur again.

“Her blood pressure will stabilize in the next two minutes,” she told him. “I need you to hold the tissue apart. Shae, we'd better call rapid...”

Jaime didn’t move.

“We _can’t_ finish the surgery, not wh—”

“Now, Mr. Lannister!”

Her eyes blazed at him, but he was too astonished to do anything. Shae leaned over to look at the numbers again as the telemetry monitor began to cry out in protest, adding to the din.

69/33. Her heart rate was now 117 beats per minute, and the telemetry monitor was picking up ventricular tachycardia waveforms here and there.

“Fuck,” Shae muttered.

The young woman knocked Jaime aside with her petite body, taking the instruments out of his hands and placing them at the lowest portion of the incision, holding the tissue further apart so that Brienne could work the femur into the joint.

“Increase the drip rates,” Shae commanded Jaime. “Then call rapid. Tell them to scrub up and wait outside.”

He must have stood there for a second, because—

“ _Now!_ ” Shae shouted.

Moving to the pump, he did as she said, fumbling his way around the machine, eventually increasing the blood transfusion and saline rates. He then ran to the blue phone that was mounted on the wall, calling for a rapid response. Neither woman could hear him speaking on the phone over the cacophony of both machines going off; the girl’s heart rate was now 122 beats per minute, and her ventricular tachycardia waveforms were increasing in number. Her blood pressure had stopped falling, though.

“Are you sure about this?” Shae questioned her.

Brienne paused for a moment, then shook her head, adjusting the screws as the plates of the patient's new knee joint lined up. She glanced at the stunning German woman, whose eyes weren’t fearful, simply full of purpose and trust.

“I’m never sure,” Brienne admitted over the beeping, “but it’s always worth trying.”

As she finished swiftly attaching the femur to all its components, Shae removed her instruments, placing them on the tray and turning to look at the monitors.

75/42, 110 beats per minute. One minute later: 81/49, 93 beats per minute. The patient was stabilizing.

Brienne visibly exhaled in relief, noticing when Jaime came to stand beside her.

“I’ll keep an eye on the monitor,” he offered. “Here.”

Only then did she see he was holding out all supplies she’d need to close the incision. She hesitated, but took the items and commenced the tedious task of placing staples along the cuts as Jaime held both sides of the tissue together.  

When she was nearly halfway down the patient’s thigh, Gilly pushed the door open slightly.

“Rapid’s here,” she called across the room, blood cooler in hand.

And, as if whatever being ran the universe had heard her pleading thoughts, the telemetry monitor stopped dinging, and the beep of the vital signs machine slowed to its usual warning hum; the girl’s blood pressure was 90/53, her heart rate was down to 77 beats per minute, and her waveforms were normal again. Brienne met Shae’s eyes and shook her head.

“We don’t need them,” Shae said, walking to take the cooler from the younger woman.

Gilly’s eyebrows shot high above her surgical mask in shock, but she nodded, turning her head to speak to the nurses with backpacks waiting outside the OR.

Once they had verified the blood, Shae hung the new bag while Gilly returned to the patient’s side, gradually decreasing the rates on the pump. By the time Brienne was through, the monitors had completely stopped beeping, and the patient’s blood pressure was staying between 106/62 and 115/70. Shae pulled off her mask, pointing at Brienne.

“You are amazing,” she praised, her accent only deepening with her smile. “That was the best work I’ve ever seen. And you,” she moved her finger to point at Jaime, her eyes narrowing, “you are still a 'fraidy-cat, you egotistical son of a—” 

“Major Tarth,” a voice rang around them. “Dr. Lannister.”

Brienne and Jaime looked up to the glass of the observation room above them, where they saw Tywin standing over them all, speaking into the OR microphone.

“My office. Thirty minutes.”

His silhouette moved away from the glass, and a panic seized her gut like no other. How much had he witnessed?

“I’ll take her to post-op,” Jaime mumbled, unable to look at her as he tore at the ties of his gown, pulling his mask from his face. “You should get some lunch.”

She opened her mouth to say that he should take the time to eat too, but he was already helping Shae transfer the young woman back onto the stretcher, a concerned crease forming between his eyes. Begrudgingly, she doffed her personal protective equipment and left the room.

* * *

By the time she sat down with her food in the cafeteria, it had been nearly fifteen minutes. Dreading the meeting and mulling over the events of the surgery in her head, she pulled out her phone to see Sansa had sent her a few photos on Instagram.

The first was a photo of Bran and her father, sipping lemonade on the porch swing while wearing ridiculous fuzzy slippers and making hoity-toity faces in the summer sun. When she opened the second one, she realized it was a video of Arya taking a running leap at her new bed, and Brienne instantly turned down the volume on her phone with a grin on her face as Sansa’s laugh rang out loudly from off screen. The last one was a breathtaking selfie Sansa had taken of her and Arya, both wearing some makeup as their hair surrounded their heads like halos. The floral comforter they were lying on told her they were probably watching television in Sansa’s bed. Brienne hoped they would post that one to their accounts so the world could see how beautiful they were.

While the photos (and video) were fantastic and delighted her, the caption Sansa had sent wrenched her gut:

_Sorry you didn’t get to sleep in like we did this morning. We promise we’ll make it up to you soon!_

Noting the time on her phone, she closed the app and stood to dispose of her lunch tray before heading for the elevators, her anxiety burrowing inside her.

_It was nearly 3 o’clock in the morning when she heard her door creak open and felt the king-sized mattress move under the weight of another body. Rolling onto her back, she saw a puffy-eyed Sansa curling up under the covers with her._

_“We can’t sleep,” Arya explained from the doorway, her pale cheeks betraying the remains of her tears as they glimmered in the moonlight._

_Brienne nodded, scooting over so that Arya could join them. She didn’t know what to say, understanding that while the loss of Catelyn’s friendship and mentorship weighed heavily upon her, it was nothing compared to the grief the girls were going through._

_She was so engrossed in her thoughts, she didn’t realize they had taken her hands until she felt Sansa’s fingers stroking her callouses the same way she did when she was sad as a little girl._

_“Would you sing for us?” she whispered. “Like you used to?”_

_Brienne smiled at the request; all her life, she had detested singing, afraid of calling further attention to herself... But the girls had always made her feel safe enough to do it. Recalling a lullaby that they always enjoyed, Brienne cleared her throat, squeezing their hands._

_“High in the halls of the kings who are gone, Jenny would dance with her ghosts...” She took a deep breath. “The ones she had lost, and the ones she had found, and the ones who had loved her the most...”_

_Peeking at Arya’s face, she saw the tears rolling down her cheeks, and she wrapped her arm around the teenager, letting her bury her head in her broad shoulder, stroking the girl’s soft, dark hair._

_“The ones who’d been gone for so very long, she couldn’t remember their names; they spun her around on the damp old stones, spun away all her sorrow and pain...”_

_A pressure on her left shoulder made it clear Sansa had also curved into her, mirroring her sister as her body shook with a sob._

_“And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave...”_

_It was then she could feel her own tears trying to break through, but she refused to let them. They needed her to be strong. Brave, like their mother had been._

_“Never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave.”_

_She finished the following verse, her voice telling them the story of how Jenny drowned in her memories until the walls crumbled around her; a metaphor for how the young lady had woken one day to find that she was old, and had wasted years of her life in grief. The weight of their heads on her shoulder grew heavy, so she softly hummed the tune, clutching Sansa’s hand over her heart as they fell asleep, their respirations evening out._

_They hardly stirred when she finally got up to dress for her first day of work, and when she looked back at them as she was leaving the room, she saw that their hands had woven together.  
_

Those children were the strongest people she’d ever known, and she had served alongside some of the best army doctors on the face of the earth. She’d be damned if Tywin Lannister thought he could take them from her.

It was with this resolve that she stepped out of the elevator to see Jaime, waiting for her outside Tywin’s office with the expression of a student who’d been sent to detention.

Before they walked in, she turned to say something to him, but—

“Whatever happens in there, I want you to know I’m sorry,” he blurted. “I should have trusted you.”

What the hell...?

“And do you trust me now?” she accused, fixing him with a withering stare.

He gaped at her blankly, his lips slightly parted.

“I don’t know.”

With a scoff, she gave the door a polite knock and marched through it, noting the emerald eyes of the woman that turned to greet her with a calculated smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was shaped back in April by the song 'Birds of a Feather' by The Civil Wars. 
> 
> The third picture (Arya and Sansa lying on Sansa's bed) is inspired by this photo in Rolling Stone Magazine interview that Sophie and Maisie did a few months ago. Link here: https://www.rollingstone.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/03/R1326_FEA_GOT_EW.jpg?w=692
> 
> Evenfall Hall in this story is an old, Victorian home in Georgetown with six bedrooms, five bathrooms, and two stories.
> 
> Shout-out to lannisteroftarth (on Tumblr) again for the info on what takes place during this procedure. You're a lifesaver, friend!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed, and thanks so much for the kudos and the time you've taken to read this story! Comments are also greatly appreciated. :)


	4. All I Heard was Nothing - Jaime II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting with Tywin forces Jaime to confront elements of his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I apologize for the wait on this update, I need to let you all know that I lost a dear friend of mine to (ironically) end-stage osteosarcoma in his spine. He was actually diagnosed a little over a month ago, after I posted this fic the first time, and my friends and I are still hurting. We thought he might have more time, but either way, he was taken far too soon.
> 
> If you have $5 and enjoy donating (or have no money and enjoy volunteering), please donate to/volunteer for your local autism society in your state or country. One of his two children has autism, and the family is asking for donations in lieu of flowers because it's what he would have wanted.
> 
> I dedicate this chapter to one of the best people I've ever had the pleasure of knowing. Thanks, buddy. <3
> 
> (Casting Note: In this story, Paul Bettany plays Addam Marbrand.)

The second he saw _her_ sitting there, a smirk on her lips and her eyes aglow, more memories than he felt equipped to handle at the moment came flooding back to him; how Tyrion had taken him to the bar for a drink that first night, and how for nearly five years, he hadn’t stopped; the way his tremors would keep him awake at night if he went more than twelve hours without it; his embarrassment when he’d failed to reach the toilet in rehab more than once, his vomit painting the floor of his room the abhorrent shade of green that was staring back at him from their mother’s barrel chair.

Worst of all, though, was the memory of the Stark boy, who’d cried and screamed when he woke up in post-op, frightened out of his mind because he couldn’t move his legs. He was all of ten years old, and one careless decision Jaime had made after a disagreement with Cersei thoroughly destroyed whatever future the boy might have had.

Yet it wasn’t Cersei’s beauty that made him want to break his sobriety in her presence; it was her putrid, noxious soul, her devotion to lies and a pill bluer than Major Tarth’s irises that made him feel helpless enough to drown himself in a fifth of whiskey. Even now, he could see she had started using again, her pupils the size of the ballpoint on their father’s treasured lion pen, the overwhelming amount of emerald surrounding them making him sick with need for a drink.

At least he had the forethought to close the door behind him as a precaution. When he turned back around, he bumped into a massive body, even taller than Major Tarth; it was Gregor Clegane, one of his sister's most trusted Secret Servicemen.

Cersei's voice pulled his attention away from the strangely silent monster.

“Jaime...” she acknowledged him oh-so-sweetly, a smile pasted on her face as she stood and walked to him.

He winced as she wrapped her wispy arms around his neck, the French braid her glimmering golden hair had been arranged into wafting the scent of her perfume into his nostrils. The smell of it nearly made him gag.

Placing his hands on her arms, he untangled himself from her, a comfortable distance finding its way between their bodies.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked with a tired sigh.

She narrowed her eyes a little, clearly not having expected such a reaction.

“Cersei was just leaving,” Tywin interceded.

“On the contrary,” she purred, “I haven’t seen or heard from my brother in over a year. We’re entitled to at least one conversation, aren’t we?”

_He stumbled only slightly under the weight of the bathroom door, finding his way back to their table with ease. Tyrion was laughing at something Bronn had said as Addam devoured the plate of Cajun fries they had ordered for the table with a smile on his face, and Jaime almost wished he was sober so he could relish the sight of the people who knew him best enjoying themselves._

_“Ah, good,” Bronn declared as he approached the table. “You’ll never believe what I caught wind of today.”_

_Addam snorted at the mention of ‘wind’._

_“That’s a good word for it,” the soldier agreed, sending Tyrion into another fit of pure giggles as Jaime sat beside him, confused._

_“St. Michael’s sent Joffrey home early today,” Tyrion elaborated._

_Jaime’s stomach rolled in anxiety._

_“Bastard got caught bashing a kid in the head with a textbook in the bathroom,” Bronn continued. “Good thing Clegane caught them when he did. Joffrey beat the poor boy so hard he shit his pants.”_

_His head fell forward into his hands immediately, his palms pressing so hard against his eyes he saw white spots._

_“Why?” was all Jaime could manage through the ever-deepening fog in his mind._

_There was silence as his friends probably looked at one another, unsure of what exactly he was asking them._

_“I heard Dr. Tarly say he'd mistakenly assigned the boy to work with Sansa on a science project,” Bronn said, his teacher workroom gossip skills apparently paying off. “Joffrey made her watch.”_

_Jaime was unable to even find the words for it anymore. He knew Cersei had pampered their eldest, but the boy was growing more malicious every year. The other child would likely be impaired for life from so much injury._

_Not for the first time, he longed to go back to the moment he couldn’t remember; the sweltering summer night he should have said no despite the love he thought he felt. Perhaps if he had—_

_“But that wasn’t what he was sent home for,” Tyrion said with a hint of delight. “No one would dare to punish the great Tywin Lannister’s grandson for assault.”_

_He stared at his brother then, disbelieving._

_“What do you mean?” Jaime demanded. “What happened?”_

_“The coach did a sweep of Joffrey’s locker,” Addam said, a smirk on his face. “Found a bottle of roxies with Cersei’s name on it. Can you believe it?” His oldest friend laughed. “Of all the things he could have been sent home for, a bottle of painkillers he nabbed from his mom is the last thing—”_

_Jaime was out of the booth, pulling his phone out of his pocket before his brother could even call after him. Tyrion didn't know yet.  
_

_Striding as evenly as he could through the door and into the alley behind the bar, he spotted her name among the blur of black letters on his touch screen, thumping it as he held it to his ear, his hands trembling. It rang about four times, then—_

_“Jaime?” Cersei answered airily._

_She was high. Their son had just committed a crime that would have committed_ him _if he were eighteen, and she was_ _sitting in her bedroom in the fucking White House, dosed up on who knew how much this time. Her own addiction was one thing, but the kids...  
_

_“Please tell me you didn’t give them to him.”_

_He heard nothing in response. Tears were beginning to well in his eyes, and he swallowed hard against them._

_“Please, Cersei...” he begged her._

_Still, no reply. His cheeks were wet now, his eyes pressed shut, his free hand tugging at his hair. The ghost of what they had once been ran through the silence on the other end of the line, and he sobbed in the shadows, his back hitting the wall._

_“Why...?” he moaned. “Why did you do it?”_

_Even without her there, he could see her mindless, empty smile fill the air in front of him._

_“It doesn’t matter why anymore,” her voice whispered. “Dad will take care of it. He always does. What’s done is done.”_

_He felt it then; the knife's edge, rending into him so sharply with the truth of everything she had become that his tears stilled themselves.  
_

_“Yes,” he admitted. “It’s done.”_

_Once he hung up, he rubbed his face clean, combing his hair with his fingers so his friends wouldn’t see the redness of his eyes, or the pale hollows of his cheeks._

_He needed another drink. If he stopped in twenty minutes, he might even be sober enough for Brandon Stark’s exploratory abdominal surgery in several hours._

_Of course, he wasn’t.  
_

Stealing a look at Major Tarth, he brushed by his sister, moving to sit in the armchair.

“We have nothing to discuss,” was all he said to Cersei, keeping his eyes trained on Major Tarth as he gestured to the barrel chair.

She stepped forward, following his lead in this situation, but Cersei blocked her path.

“So _this_ is your new pet,” she sneered in her father’s direction, frowning up at the tall woman. “What was it, again? Sergeant Trace?”

The major's lips parted to speak when—

“Major _Tarth_ ,” Tywin chastised, his stony glower unable to remove Cersei from his office.

The aforementioned woman smiled, extending a hand.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Baratheon.”

Cersei took the smallest step back, startled by the woman’s propriety, and Clegane shifted his weight at the first lady's hesitation.

“‘Mrs. Baratheon,’” she quoted viciously. “This great cow really has no idea, does she?”

“Cersei...” Tywin warned.

“I’ll be a Lannister again soon,” she told the major, giving their father a sidelong glance, "though I’m not sure a name secures anyone a spot in this family anymore, does it?”

Jaime saw Tywin’s nostrils flare and his posture marginally change; he was about to pounce.

“Tell me, _major_ ,” Cersei spat, “how is the boy?”

Major Tarth’s smile faltered as her hand returned to her side, and Jaime felt his heart short-circuit.

“I assure you, I feel only the utmost respect for you,” his twin pressed on. “After all, I would assume working alongside the man who crippled him in the first place must be difficult to—”

“That’s enough!” Tywin’s voice thundered.

All eyes flew to him in alarm as he stalked forward, his fists clenched in rage. Clegane didn't move.

“If you have any intention of remaining in this family, then I’ll assume you remember the way out.”

Cersei’s tight jaw slackened, no doubt to give their father an apology he would have bought a few years ago—

“Or has the simple structure of your new home become so familiar that you’ve forgotten where you came from?” he alleged. “I’ll call you when the arrangements have been made.”

As his sister’s face twisted into a scowl that highlighted the premature wrinkles her dependence was tracing into her skin, she stalked to the chair and snatched up her Birkin bag, giving Jaime one of her seething glares before heading for the door. Major Tarth made her way toward the desk, but froze upon discovering something his sister had left on the leather seat.

“Mrs. Baratheon?”

The mildness in Major Tarth’s tone caught them all unaware, and Cersei stopped with a sigh that could have blown the door open.

“I thought I made my feelings about my married name perfectly clear,” she hissed, giving the woman a sour smile as she looked over her shoulder. “Are you mocking me, or are you truly just that stupid?”

Jaime watched as Major Tarth strode to her and extended her hand, a pair of sunglasses folded neatly in her palm, and the implication became perfectly clear...

She knew. She knew Cersei was drugged at that very moment, and that her eyes would betray her.

“You forgot these,” the major explained, but the unspoken ultimatum stumbled through the air to fall at Cersei’s perfectly polished feet.

If she took the sunglasses, it would confirm Major Tarth’s suspicions, and if she didn’t, one of the photographers would surely notice her pupils and the story would be published by sundown. His eyes traveled to his father, who was carefully observing the exchange, likely waiting for his own reservations about his daughter to be revealed.

When Cersei inhaled deeply, taking the sunglasses and placing them on her head, Jaime realized how small she was in comparison to the woman standing in front of her, her insecurity condensing her posture in a way he recognized in himself.

“If you’ll excuse me...” she mumbled, earning a deferential nod from the major before opening the door and retreating from their father’s office, Clegane close behind her.

Jaime was smirking in wonder when Major Tarth returned to sit beside him. However, the way she avoided meeting his gaze reminded him of his sister’s words. She knew he’d been the one to permanently handicap an innocent child; a boy whom, based on Gilly’s words during the operation, she loved very much.

It would seem he was unable to do anything that didn’t upset everyone around him, despite how far he had come in his recovery. The itch that had faded a few minutes ago burrowed within his stomach, forcing him to wipe his hands on his scrub pants as he leaned back into the chair, allowing its plush cushions to engulf him.

“Major Tarth,” Tywin began, sitting behind his desk, his previous fury forgotten. “I apologize for my daughter's behavior. Her words were—"

"It's fine," the woman interrupted. "After thirty-three years, I've grown used to it."

His father simply nodded, but Jaime's chest clenched at the idea that this woman had endured so much cruelty that even his sister's cutting remarks were unsurprising.

"We'll move on, then," Tywin resumed. "Your performance in the operating room was laudable, but the risk you took was unacceptable and unnecessary. That sort of decision may be made in a military hospital in Iraq, but not in a civilian establishment and especially _not_ in my hospital. Is that clear?”

Jaime saw the way her usually straight back curved under the weight of Tywin’s words, and the burning pressure he'd felt between his lungs built to a level that paired poorly with the familiar need in his gut.

“If I had listened to her sooner, it would have been less of a risk.”

Her sapphire eyes flitted to him then, but he kept his own on Tywin’s stunned expression.

“Are you telling me that you are willing to accept _more_ than your share of responsibility for what happened?” he questioned, his eyebrows creeping up his forehead.

Though Jaime desperately wanted to run away from it, he wouldn’t. Not this time.

“I am.”

A nameless emotion he had never seen on his father’s face found a home there for a mere fraction of a second, disappearing as quickly as it arrived when he considered Major Tarth once more.

“Do _you_ believe that to be fair?”

Ashamed of what she now knew about him, and fearful of the disappointment he’d see if he glanced at her, Jaime kept his gaze fixed on the desk in the thoughtful silence that trailed after his father’s question, the guilt filling him with self-directed bitterness.

“The decision I made was my own,” she began, turning to speak directly to him, “but you didn’t follow my lead because you were afraid of the consequences.”

“Can you blame me?” he countered, finally meeting her eyes in time to see them soften.

Rather than say anything else, he let the stillness of the air settle between them.

“Very well,” Tywin affirmed. “Major Tarth, I trust I won’t need to recall this conversation in the future, especially when you have so very much to lose.”

She exhaled, the length of it implying she had been holding her breath.

“You won’t,” she murmured, facing his father again. “You have my word.”

“And Jaime,” Tywin continued, “since you have chosen to shoulder a majority of the responsibility for what occurred, you will fulfill fourteen months as Major Tarth’s surgical assistant rather than your original twelve, and your usual salary will be halved for the remainder of the arrangement. Are those reasonable repercussions?”

He gaped at the man; two extra months and a $225,000 salary? At the very least, he’d expected another year, or a tenth of the compensation he had quoted. Why was he getting off so easy?

Remembering to close his mouth, Jaime nodded gratefully.

“They’re fine,” he agreed. “Thank you.”

Tywin stood then, just as Major Tarth’s pager went off. She too stood from her chair, unclipping the device and reading the message.

“It’s Gilly,” she said, giving Jaime a look of concern. “The patient’s family has questions.”

“They always do,” Tywin assured her. “There will be no reason for us to reconvene this evening. Go. Your patient is waiting.”

The major left immediately, pager still in hand, but Jaime lingered, his father’s change in demeanor unnerving him.

“Why such an easy penalty?” he inquired of the old man.

Tywin smirked, his eyes flickering to the chair she had vacated before picking up his reading glasses, placing them on the edge of his nose.

“Go to your patient, Jaime.”

He could have argued, risking a more exacting punishment, but he did as he was told.

* * *

“What do you mean it’ll take two months?” the father interrogated. “My mom had a total hip replacement last year, and she was walking again in three _weeks_.”

Jaime saw Major Tarth nervously fumble with her pager, unsure of what else she could possibly say to comfort this family. They had taken one look at her and, as worried family members often do, doubted her ability to do her job; however, it was nothing like his own post-op encounters. This family commented on her features, her gender, how young she seemed, and went so far as to ask if she was truly a surgeon when everyone around her referred to her by her military title. Even after they had accepted that she had performed the operation successfully, they grilled her for information when they saw the extent of the staples in their daughter’s leg. The patient was lying down flat in bed as she was meant to do for another hour, conscious embarrassment at her parents' behavior flushing her face despite the amount of painkillers pulsing through her blood.

“Your daughter has had both a total hip replacement _and_ a total knee replacement,” Major Tarth explained patiently. “She’s missing one of the strongest bones in her body, and her prosthesis isn’t completely attached to the ligaments. Intensive physical therapy is the only thing that will help her recover.”

The father’s frown only further sliced into his cheeks, and Jaime refused to wait for the man to say something rude, stepping forward and smiling down at the young woman on whom they'd operated.

“Tasha, isn’t it?”

She smiled back at him, nodding.

“Well, Tasha,” he started, sitting in the vacant chair beside the bed, “we could spend hours talking about all the amazing things you’re going to do when you get out of here, but why don’t we go ahead and get a diet order into the system for you?”

His eyes cut to Major Tarth, who understood, striding to the computer mounted to the wall and proceeding to do just that.

“That would be amazing,” Tasha said honestly. “They couldn’t do the surgery yesterday, so I haven’t really had anything to eat for two days.”

He believed her; no one could do anything on schedule in this hospital.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he confessed. “We don’t always get to our scheduled operations on time. But how are you feeling otherwise?”

Tasha’s smile faltered.

“The pain’s pretty bad, but I don’t think it’s hit me yet.”

“What hasn’t hit you yet?” her mother probed, apprehension lacing her voice.

Jaime saw the young woman’s bottom lip quiver as her eyes filled with tears.

“That it’s gone,” she breathed. “The cancer’s really gone, isn’t it?”

He sensed Major Tarth moving to stand beside the chair where he was sitting, and he glanced up at her, hoping she would continue from there. She was smiling, the navy blue of her surgical cap only brightening her even bluer eyes.

“The hospitalist will have to order some bloodwork over the next few days,” she told Tasha, “and I’d like to see another scan to be sure, but for now, we think it might be.”

Their patient’s tears spilled over as she reached out and took Major Tarth’s hand.

“Thank you,” she choked. “Thank you both so much.”

Jaime felt warmth behind his own eyes, but he stood, turning to speak with the parents again.

“We can have Gilly come in to give you more specifics the next time she’s free, if that would be better for you?” he posed.

The parents, who were clutching one another, nodded furiously in agreement, eager to spend time with their daughter. Major Tarth bowed her head to both of them, smiling at Tasha one last time before withdrawing from the room. It was only when they stood outside her office five minutes later, her shaking fingers fiddling with the key that he noticed the tracks of dampness on her cheeks.

“Are you okay?” he whispered.

The door eventually gave way, and once they were inside, she shut it, leaning against the dark-stained wood and wiping at her face.

“I could have killed her,” she bit out.

 _“We_ could have killed her,” he corrected, “but we didn’t. Quite the opposite, actually.”

She grimaced, taking off her cap and freeing her light blonde hair from its constraining bun, running her fingers through it. As he watched her do so, he tried to think of a way to breach the topic of what had happened with the Stark boy; not to clarify events, perhaps, since she was intelligent enough to draw her own conclusions, but his sister had been right: Now that Major Tarth knew he had crippled the child, their relationship as coworkers would be more difficult for her. Any moment, the ball would drop, and the begrudging peace they had found would dissolve.

“You should get some lunch,” she said instead, brushing past him and sitting behind her desk. “It’s been a rough day so far, and if I’m already planning on a glass of zinfandel when I get home, I can only imagine what it’s been like for you.”

The thoughtfulness of her statement caught him off-guard. Nobody ever considered his feelings. Never.

“Thank you,” he responded sincerely.

She paused in her task of rifling through the piles of paperwork that had appeared on her desk while they were gone, exhaling a breath he could hear from the door.

“When you come back, would you... I mean, do you think you could help me make sense of this?” she mused exasperatedly, her forehead resting in her hands. “I have no idea where to start.”

_“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Tyrion muttered, staring at the forms in front of him on the coffee table. “This is all very new to me.”_

_“Most family members feel overwhelmed when they drop their relatives off,” the social worker said in a calm tone. “It’s completely normal. Here...”_

_As the kind, middle-aged woman pressed her chained glasses up on her nose, leaning forward to help Tyrion understand what he was signing, Jaime took in the lobby of the facility, its simplicity alluring him._

_There was a small fountain in the center, and the large windows allowed in a plentiful amount of natural light, illuminating the room without the need for fluorescent fixtures in the midday sun. He caught a glimpse of the lounge down the hallway, where he saw someone reading a book on the sofa, and two others playing a board game. It didn’t look like the most exciting place, but then again, rehab wasn’t meant to be fun. Everyone knew that._

_Perhaps best of all, though, it was a place where_ she _wouldn’t be able to contact him or see him or manipulate him while he recovered, and according to Tyrion, he needed that desperately._

_Jaime saw the social worker briskly go back behind her desk, filing away her paperwork as one of the certified nursing assistants, a tanned specimen of a man whose nametag read ‘Torgo’, picked up his burdensome duffel bag with ease, his lean, chiseled arms enough to make even Jaime feel uncomfortable._

_“I take your things to room for you,” he said, his heavy Spanish accent rendering his words slow and choppy. “It will be 15.”_

_The eldest Lannister nodded, and Torgo’s frame was soon replaced by his brother’s petite one as he walked away._

_Tyrion held out his hands in a gesture of resignation._

_“I suppose this is it, then.”_

_Jaime tried to smile, but soon found himself on his knees, locked in his little brother’s embrace._

_“You took care of me when no one else would,” Tyrion mumbled into his shoulder, pulling back and cupping his brother’s face with his tiny hands, smoothing away the tears Jaime wasn’t aware he’d been crying. “Now it’s my turn.”_

_A chuckle made its way out of him, and he gripped his younger brother’s shoulders more tightly._

_“Ninety days,” he stated._

_Tyrion nodded, his own cheeks damp with his solemnity._

_“Ninety days,” he confirmed, “and then we’ll go from there.”_

When she looked up at him, Jaime gave her what he hoped was a reassuring tilt of his head.

“I’ll be back in forty-five minutes.”

And, true to his word, he walked through the office door forty-five minutes later and sat down across from her, taking note of the subtle way her lips twitched into a smile at the sight and smell of his decaf latte. She might be stubborn, but so was he, and fourteen months was a long time to suffer alongside someone else without a cup of coffee.

He pulled out the case that contained his reading glasses and got to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a toughie for many reasons, but especially since writing Cersei doesn't come naturally to me in the modern world... Which is probably a good thing!
> 
> This chapter (and its title) were inspired by The Script's 'Nothing', which was one of my ballads in college. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it. Kudos and comments are love. Bookmarks are flattery. :)


	5. Just Another One of My Problems - Brienne III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne starts to see the other side of things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief hospital slang rundown for people who (hopefully) don't frequent hospitals: 
> 
> ED - Emergency department  
> Peds - Pronounced 'peeds', short for 'pediatrics'  
> STAT - Immediately
> 
> Also: There is a very brief ****reference to self-harm**** in this chapter, but delivered differently than you might think. As I said in the beginning, bringing these characters into this universe requires a darker theme for my story, and some of that means torture from the canon must be included. Know that I am basing much of the pain these characters go through on what people I deeply care about and know very well have gone through. If you are hurting, please talk to someone. The National Suicide Prevention Hotline # is 1-800-273-8255 and they are available 24/7, 365. Peace and love, my people.

The forty-four hours she had allotted to Tywin each week were distributed over four days; three twelve-hour shifts that typically involved at least one surgery each day, and one eight-hour shift dedicated entirely to paperwork and meetings. He paid her well for the overtime, and since Tasha’s surgery, Jaime truly had become more pliable to her direction, making her working days more bearable. Even Gilly made the offhand comment one morning that when she saw her name on a surgery with the two of them, she always felt at ease, knowing how well they worked together as a team. 

Part of her desperately hoped Tywin thought the same.

Following a scheduled surgery or two each morning, they would part for lunch, after which the former Chief of Surgery would patiently teach _her_ how to navigate the paperwork portion of her job in her office, which usually devoured half of their afternoon. The ease with which he understood the documents she consistently drowned in, and the joy he apparently got out of the task, compelled her to wonder about what he'd said in his father’s office that first day; if he didn’t want to take over the organization, why did managing the details of the hospital’s largest department bring him so much pleasure?

The last few hours of their twelve-hour shifts were devoted to visiting both their pre-op and post-op patients. Because consent forms typically involved family, and they had determined that she worked best with the patients themselves, he willingly took on the responsibility of obtaining signatures and answering any questions the family might have about the forms in front of them. Now and then, he would stumble on a word, distracting her as she listened to the patient’s concerns, but she didn’t think anything of it. It was late in the day, and she doubted even she could read such complicated documents after so long on her feet.

The first time he was late, she went to Tywin’s office to inform him of the fact, terrified that something might have happened without her knowledge. As she entered the room, though, she saw Jaime hunched over in the crimson barrel chair, his head in his hands. Tywin elaborated, telling her that Joffrey’s body had been found that morning at Pendleton Correctional Facility, where he’d been sent. She tentatively approached Jaime, doing her best to mentally push the repulsive rumors she’d heard about those children from her mind as she checked in with him, seeing if he needed the day off. He shook his head, wiped his reddened cheeks, and when he forced himself to smile at her and say he was fine, the emptiness in his eyes told her that there might be more to the story than she’d originally believed. For the first time in over a decade, she prayed for someone else.

_Please, don't let him do anything stupid._

Joffrey’s murder occurred only two months into the arrangement, yet Jaime seemed determined not to let it get to him, and the semi-painless rhythm into which they had slipped before eventually returned... But it was still lunch that Brienne looked forward to the most. Photos from Sansa and Arya accumulated with texts from both Margaery and Sandor, typically leading her into a smile, if not a full-on fit of laughter. In addition to her weekly dinners at the house with Olenna and the Starks, Margaery had started stopping by Hot Pie’s during their lunch breaks once a week to engage in conversations that were much less restrained without the children present and far more in line with their years as roommates in college.

Today, Margaery was already seated at their table, Sandor sitting beside her, and Brienne cocked an eyebrow at the lemon cake in the spot they’d saved for her.

“What’s the occasion?” she asked as she approached.

Sandor stood with a smirk on his scarred face, holding out his arms. She hadn’t seen the former Secret Serviceman since the Starks’ funeral, and the sight of him expecting her to wrap her arms around his gargantuan torso reminded her of their wrestling matches in the quad at George Washington University, where the professors had quickly learned to roll their eyes and continue walking by after a brief, colorful conversation between the Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences and the man standing in front of her.

She walked into those arms without any reservations, exhaling in relief as she folded her own around him.

“Four months,” he groused into her hair. “Four fucking months since I’ve seen you, and the first thing _you_ see is a fucking lemon cake.”

She heard Margaery’s laugh chime through the air as Brienne tugged on his ponytail and he groaned. She stepped back to consider her once athletic enemy turned ally.

“Who _wouldn’t_ prefer lemon cake to a face like that?”

Sandor chuckled, shaking his head as he grasped her arms, a brief shadow of pain fluttering across his scarred features.

“How are they doing?” he questioned in earnest. “The girls?”

Brienne inhaled deeply, thinking about how their sadness had lessened over the last four months, and how well they had taken care of one another.

“They’re better,” she admitted, “but Arya won’t stop asking about you. If you don’t visit soon, you’re going to find her standing over you in the middle of the night with a pair of boxing gloves on her hands.”

He smiled.

“I’d expect nothing less.”

She felt Margaery tug her hand, pulling her toward the table.

“I brought you something,” Margaery lilted as they all sat down, cutting her eyes at Sandor, “and _someone_ insisted it couldn’t wait until you got home.”

“You knew what I’d fucking say before you called me,” he said calmly, defensively crossing his arms. “And it’s not as if you _didn’t_ want to come here. I know you’ve got a boner for her.”

Margaery’s mouth opened in surprise, her gaze darting to Ros, who smirked as she wiped the deli counter.

“Sandor, I do not—”

“Yes, you do,” Brienne countered, grinning when Margaery’s shocked, trying-not-to-smile-but-failing open mouth turned on her. “Even I’ve noticed it.”

Margaery swatted her arm as she broke into laughter, her friend tugging her sky blue blouse down enough to expose some more cleavage and situating her velvety hair over one shoulder as she usually did when she wanted someone's attention.

“Anyway...” Margaery pressed on, throwing a playful glare at Sandor as she rummaged through her briefcase, “Mamaw picked these up yesterday.”

As she placed the papers on the table, Brienne’s smile faded.

“I know your birthday isn’t until next month,” her friend murmured, taking her hand, “but we thought you might like them to know by then.”

She opened her mouth, and when the sentences wouldn’t form themselves, she shook her head.

“I can’t,” she breathed. “Not now. Not so soon after—”

“Do you really think they’ll say no?” Sandor accused. “Those pups have known you their entire lives. For fuck’s sake, Bri, you’re their legal guardian.”

Brienne released a huff, removing her hand from Margaery’s as her forehead collided with her palms.

“Adoption is different.”

Judging by the momentary silence of her friends, they didn’t have the right words, and neither did she.

“Here, love,” an easy voice said as the chink of a mug being placed on the table echoed close by.

She sat up to see a latte in front of her, just like she ordered every morning. A warm hand touched her shoulder, and she looked up to see Ros smiling down at her.

“Is there anything else I can get you?” she soothed. “Another lemon cake, or maybe some soup?”

Brienne was rendered speechless by her generosity, and another idea immediately came to mind.

“Yes, actually,” she stated. “You could give my friend your number.”

Margaery’s blue eyes went wider than she’d ever them and she nervously bit her bottom lip, so Ros simply smiled and leaned over the table, pulling out an old receipt and writing down some digits.

“I’d have given it to you weeks ago, you know,” Ros said matter-of-factly, “but I wasn’t sure if...”

“I know,” Margaery jumped in, unable to stop grinning. “Me too.”

Ros slid it across the table to her, straightening her shoulders and placing a hand on her hip.

“I’m off tomorrow...” she suggested.

Brienne saw her best friend nod like an idiot in answer.

“I’ll text you in the morning, then.”

As Ros turned to walk away, she squeezed Brienne’s shoulder one more time.

“I’ll have the staff set aside a few more lemon cakes for you,” she promised. “You can take then home to the kids.”

Brienne nodded gratefully, and Ros made her way back behind the deli counter. When she glanced at Margaery, she was still staring after her. Watching her best friend take such a risk filled her with her own confidence.

“I’ll do it,” she announced. “I’ll tell them about the papers tonight at dinner.”

Her friends gaped at her as she reached for the plate—

“Is that a lemon cake?” inquired a young, well-mannered voice from beside her.

It was a boy, maybe Bran’s age, with stunning emerald eyes and golden blonde hair. She chortled when he licked his lips, pushing the plate toward him.

“Do you like lemon cakes?”

He shook his head, though his eyes remained fixed on the delectable treat.

“Really?” she said, clearly disbelieving. “You strike me as the type of person who likes lemon cakes.”

His smile fell.

“I do, but my dad says—”

“Tommen,” Jaime called as he jogged over, Sandor’s brother hot on his heels. She hadn’t forgotten how statuesque the man had remained when Tywin had shouted at Cersei, and couldn’t ignore the way Sandor slowly stood to face the man who’d burned him.

As Tommen turned around, Jaime tugged him close, a hand on his shoulder.

“Sorry about that,” he apologized to the three adults. “We’re a little excited to be at the hospital.”

“Well, we never get to visit anymore,” a younger, more perfect version of Cersei defended as she moved to stand next to her uncle. She couldn’t have been more than thirteen. “We probably wouldn’t have, if Dad hadn’t called for an emergency meeting with Vice-President Martell.”

The girl’s stunning features twisted in a misery beyond her years at the mention of her father, but Jaime placed his other hand on her shoulder, steadying her.

“My niece, Myrcella,” he introduced, ruffling the boy’s hair. “And you’ve already met Tommen. Guys, this is Major Tarth. She’s your grandfather’s new Chief of—”

“She likes lemon cakes,” Tommen said happily, beaming up at Jaime.

“Is that so?” he alleged, smiling down at her.

Damn. She could feel the heat of her blush if she was standing a mile away from it.

“We’d better be going,” Margaery announced, drawing her attention to how tense Sandor seemed to have become in his brother’s presence.

Brienne stood, flipping the adoption papers face down on the table before turning to hug Sandor goodbye.

“Everyone free Friday night?” he offered.

She nodded into his shoulder.

“Six o’clock,” she told him. “Don’t be late, or I’ll let Arya handle you. And remember; Halloween is in a few weeks. The kids will want you to come.”

“Ridiculous holiday,” Sandor grumbled, but Brienne could tell he was planning on it.

After slapping his back like she did after their wrestling practices in college, he stepped back to place a massive hand on her shoulder.

“Congratulations, by the way,” he said honestly. “I hope it... It works, or works out, or whatever they say.”

Brienne smirked.

“Get lost,” she taunted him, shrugging away from his hand as he did so.

It was then she felt Margaery pulling her into an embrace.

“I’ll text you about tomorrow,” she vowed, taking her hands and stepping back. “All the details. And congratulations, Bri.”

If she smiled anymore today, Brienne believed her face might actually freeze into the mask her nanny had always warned her about.

“Tell Olenna I said thank you.”

Her best friend nodded, picking up her briefcase and making for the doorway, likely overdue for some court case.

“Ah, so this must be the famous Major Tarth,” a cocky voice sounded from behind her.

When she turned around, she didn’t see anyone. Then she noticed a short, underdeveloped man standing in front of her, close to her age, with hazel eyes and strawberry blonde hair.

“Jaime said you were tall,” he mused, impressed. “I thought he was exaggerating. You’re much more magnificent than I had imagined.”

Brienne’s eyes met Jaime’s, who directed his gaze toward Myrcella instead.

“Thank you...”

The small man extended a hand to her, his lips parting to reply—

“This is our Uncle Tyrion,” Tommen said proudly. “I’m even taller than he is now. See?”

As the boy moved to stand beside his uncle, on whom he really did have an inch or two, Brienne remembered how resentful Tywin had been about the man before her, as though he had intentionally murdered his mother despite the fact that he was an infant. Keeping this in mind, she slouched ever so slightly to take Tyrion’s hand, trying her best not to draw attention to his lack of height or her excess of it.

“It’s nice to meet you,” she said, giving both Tyrion and Tommen a smile.

“We’re going to eat lunch with Uncle Jaime,” Myrcella declared. “Do you want to sit with us?”

Brienne’s eyes flashed to the documents on the table awaiting her attention, her fingers grazing the edges of the stack. If she was truthful with herself, sharing lunch with them would keep her mind from matters she didn’t want to consider at work.

“Let me get my things.”

Myrcella’s face lit up, and Tommen commenced tugging Jaime’s hand in the direction of a broader table with more chairs for them all.

“All right, hold your horses, soldier,” Jaime said with a chuckle. “I have to ask her about next week, okay?”

As understanding dawned on the boy’s features, confusion gracing her own at the comment, Jaime reached past her and took the plate of lemon cake, handing it to Tommen.

“Would you go put this on the table for her?”

The boy took the plate with a grin, nodding furiously as he set out for the table at which Tyrion and Myrcella were staking their claim. Gregor Clegane followed, his hands clasped in front of him as he stayed nearby.

“So...” she began as Jaime looked at her again. “Next week?”

He put his hands in the pockets of his scrub pants, his shoulders hunching over enough so that a lock of his jaw-length hair fell from behind his ear.

“Robert’s been struggling to manage the kids ever since the divorce was finalized,” he explained. “He got full custody, which is great, but he can’t always predict when he’ll need someone to keep an eye on them. Cersei doesn’t have visitation rights, so they’ll usually just spend the day with Tyrion, or spend the night with us...”

“What does this have to do with next week?” she urged, picking up the adoption papers and slipping them into her backpack.

She could tell he was going to request something, and was totally unused to the concept.

“It’s fall break at St. Michael’s,” he said in a cautious tone. “Robert’s going to be out of the country, and the kids were hoping they could go to the beach for a few days because they can’t go with him. I told them I’d have to run it by you, since—”  

“Which days would you need?”

His lips parted as he stared at her in astonishment.

“Well, I... Um...” She watched as he caught the errant strand of hair, brushing it back behind his ear as he shuffled his feet. “We were thinking Wednesday through Sunday.”

She pulled her phone out of her pocket and flipped through her calendar, trying to remember what day Arya’s swim meet would be, or if Bran had any demanding science assignments due before Wednesday... Was Sansa’s fashion show this month or in October?

After combing through the kids’ schedules, she nodded.

“It works for me, but even if you worked Sunday through Tuesday, you’d be missing a day,” she said, and she could almost see the burden on his shoulders increase. “I don’t know if your father would—”

“I talked to him about it this morning,” he confessed, bowing his head in her direction. “He said he’d agree with whatever you decided.”

 _That_ was unexpected.

“What did she say?” Myrcella’s sweet voice sang as she approached them. Tommen was close behind, sipping a soda.

Jaime hadn’t asked her for anything in the way of scheduling in the four months they’d been working together, and he _had_ been helping her with paperwork. Not to mention, the way he looked at these kids... Did she look at the Starks like that? Eyes full of unconditional love and appreciation?

She certainly hoped so.

“I said yes,” Brienne said, noting how Jaime’s expression relaxed.

Myrcella grinned, and Tommen ran to her, throwing his arms around her legs, the cold, damp soda cup soaking through the legs of her scrub pants.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” he exclaimed.

All she could do was smile down at him, unable to stop as he ran back to Tyrion, who waved her over as he headed for the pizza station. She reached for her backpack, but Jaime had already thrown it over his shoulder.

“Tommen’s been so much happier the last several months,” he said, a note of shame in his words. “Joffrey wasn’t... He wasn’t very kind to him.”

She fell silent as they gradually started for the table, thinking of how miserable the boy must have been at the hands of his merciless brother.

“How’s Sansa doing?” he ventured, breaking into her thoughts.

Her eyes flew to his, but the foamy-green seas she saw there were calm and concerned, not tumultuous and frigid like those of his father.

“It’s like night and day,” was all she could manage as she shoved away the memory of thirteen-year–old Sansa, crying as she lifted her skirt, mortified to reveal thighs littered with scars from where the boy had forced her to cut into her own skin. Brienne had wanted justice for those tears for so long; still, her idea of justice wasn’t the same as a twenty-year-old with a dinner knife and a quiet corner at Pendleton.

As soon as they sat down, Myrcella brought up something else she never believed she’d have to deal with again so soon.

“Weren’t you at Uncle Renly’s funeral?”

Brienne painted the shadow of a smile on her lips and nodded.

“I was,” she confirmed. “We served together in the army.”

“I bet you liked him, didn’t you?” Jaime teased, elbowing Tommen with a wink.

“He _was_ very handsome,” Myrcella tittered.

Of course, her half-hearted smile faltered as the blade sliced through, her discomfiture forcing her to set her jaw instead.

“He was one of my best friends,” she corrected. “We trained together.”

“So, what brought you home?” Tyrion wondered aloud as he carefully put two large pizza boxes on the table.

The resentment she felt at the question she’d been asked a hundred times mixed with the recollection of Renly’s rigid body in her arms, forming a sour cocktail of emotion that churned in her gut.

“A piece of shrapnel.”

The brutality of her answer made the children’s faces go slack, and she could sense Jaime’s eyes on her.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Tyrion said earnestly, pushing one of the boxes over to them, “and sorry for your loss.”

For the remainder of lunch, they ate both pizzas and the children continued to grill her about her past, fascinated that she’d befriended the 'Hound', captained the female wrestling team, and graduated in the top 5% of her class. Tyrion laughed with the children, and encouraged them to tell her stories now and then. It wasn’t lunch with her own family, but somehow, it was just as warm and welcoming, and the recollection of Renly and that fateful drive was soon placed back in its safe, locked away from the world.

Jaime, however, ate without contributing to the conversation, and she didn’t look at him once.

By the time they walked back to her office, she had filed away the snickers and bright smiles of the children, eager to finish the day and get home to another set of delighted faces. What she hadn’t expected was to see a young, chubby man with unkempt dark hair leaning against the wall outside her office door. His mint green scrubs matched theirs, and he wore a white physician’s coat that temporarily disoriented her.

“Can I help you?”

The young man straightened up instantly, his right hand finding its way into the space between them.

“Yes,” he said, his thick Scottish brogue breaking through his words like an axe. “I’m Dr. Podrick Payne. I’ve been assigned to work with you to complete the last year of my residency.”

Unable to handle any more excitement for the day, she rolled her eyes, brushing by his outstretched hand to unlock her office door and stalk inside.

* * *

As usual, Jaime helped her with paperwork (or tried to), but she didn’t talk to him almost at all, busying herself with what she now understood, adding the data into the computer as Jaime dutifully reviewed the consent forms and other paperwork they used with Dr. Payne instead. Four or five hours later, when she had finally reached a stopping point, it was 5:45; they only had fifteen minutes left of the shift and they hadn’t made one pre or post-op round since lunch.

Of all the times she'd have to stay late, it had to be the day she finally got the adoption papers from Olenna.

“...And, of course, this is the one we use when the patient is under the care of a legal guardian or parent,” she heard Jaime say, using his pen to point to a particular paragraph. “This section is meant to be signed by the patient, but if they’re under eighteen and unconscious, it’s not necessary to—”

“Dr. Lannister...?”

Brienne glanced at them then, watching as Dr. Payne hesitantly leaned forward, pointing to the document.

“I think we’ve gone over this one.”

Jaime didn’t argue; rather, he exhaled harshly, dropping the stapled papers on the desk with a thump before removing his reading glasses, the fingers of his free hand pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Are you okay?” Dr. Payne continued.

Her assistant nodded and put his glasses back on, so she turned back to the computer to shut it down, satisfied that he—

“My dyslexia gets worse if I’m stressed,” he conceded. “If I stare at too many words, I forget which papers I’ve already seen.”

Dyslexia? Jaime Lannister, the golden lion, the pride and joy of Baelor Hospital, was _dyslexic?_

“But you’ve never shown any signs of it,” she balked, startling him with her first words in hours. “The paperwork, the consent forms... You haven’t—”

“It’s not as bad around you,” he interrupted. “Not when we’re alone, anyway. If I get irritated, though, or if a patient’s family is really worried or upset, sometimes the words that I read out loud get disconnected from what’s on the page.”

Realizing she actually _had_ noticed those occasional hiccups, she frowned, unable to understand...

“You’re telling me that you have dyslexia, and you were still willing to help me with all of _this?”_ she challenged, gesturing to the file folders that were now neatly arranged in three clear plastic tubs on the side of her desk. “Why?”

He shrugged, his eyes flickering to his hands.

“Because you asked me to.”

An unfamiliar warmth rushed into her chest with the impact of a million bullets at his words: How could he utter such hurtful speculation at lunch, dredging up the most well-guarded pieces of her past in mere seconds, yet simultaneously spend _months_ in what was surely agony walking her through thousands of documents filled with tiny black nightmares? Furthermore, how the hell could both of those ideas exist in one person?

The sound of all three pagers going off jolted her out of the pit she had fallen into, their beeps overwhelming the air with the weight of the lives they always carried. Dr. Payne eagerly removed his from his belt, silencing it.

“What does it say?” she sighed.

The young man’s face contorted in bewilderment.

“‘Pediatric trauma due to explosion, ED STAT’...” he said aloud. “We don’t do peds, do we?"

“The nurse must have paged the wrong department,” Jaime assured him. “It happens some—”

“It wasn’t a nurse,” Dr. Payne cut in. “It was sent by Dr. Lannister.”

Tywin? Why would he page them about a pediatric trauma? Unless...

Her eyes flew to Jaime, who was gaping at her in the same all-consuming fear that had suddenly sunk its claws into her gut.

She leapt out of her chair instinctively as Jaime lurched for the door, Dr. Payne on their heels as they sprinted down the hallway toward the emergency department.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter (and especially the following one, which will be out by the end of the week!) were inspired by Lana Del Rey's 'High by the Beach'. What a kween. Literally heard the song once and this plot point 'exploded' (so puckin' punny) out of nowhere the second the bass dropped during the second chorus. Ya girl was *shook*. 
> 
> Comments, kudos, and bookmarks are much appreciated. I am so glad to know that the time I'm investing into this universe, these characters, and these relationships is paying off!
> 
> My tumblr username finally matches my AO3 username, so come find me at https://ofaclassicalmind.tumblr.com/. Yay!


	6. Lights, Camera, Acción - Brienne IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne sees too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would have posted this yesterday, but got the super-sonic-flu on Thursday and spent most of yesterday recuperating. This fic is shaping up to be longer than 'Chemical Bonds'; likely forty-ish chapters total. 
> 
> Reiteration that I have mentally cast the incomparable Stellan Skarsgård as Selwyn Tarth, since he's great at portraying strong characters with a soft flair. 
> 
> History Heads-Up: For my non-American friends, the Puritans were the first English settlers in what would become the United States. 
> 
> Healthcare Heads-Up (More at the end because spoilers):  
> \- Your O2 saturation should be between 96%-100% on room air.

They were on the opposite side of the hospital in under five minutes, winded and disheveled as they stopped at the nurse’s station.

“Where is he?” Jaime demanded.

Brienne watched as the terrified nurse pointed to Tywin, who was waiting by the ambulance door, standing beside a woman in the crimson scrubs all the ED physicians wore, her long, silky red hair braided over her shoulder.

Jaime stalked to them, looking every bit the lion Brienne had seen on the pen with which she’d signed their fate.

“What is it? Where are they?”

His father wouldn’t even acknowledge him.

“I’m glad to know you’re still here, major,” he said calmly, ignoring Jaime’s question. “You’ll have your work cut out for you when they—”

“Two minutes out!” one of the nurses bellowed over the commotion of bodies and voices running around, donning gowns and gloves and preparing for their arrivals.

She felt something brush against her right arm and turned to see Dr. Payne holding two gowns and a box of gloves. Without hesitation, she snatched one of the gowns and tied it around her waist, noting how little of her legs these plastic gowns covered in contrast to those of the OR.

“Do you know what’s happened?” he whispered, giving her a pair of nitrile gloves that she hastily stretched over her large hands.

“I’m not sure,” she admitted, taking the box of gloves so he could put on his gown, “but I think it might have to do with the president’s children.”

Dr. Payne’s eyebrows furrowed at this, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jaime step back as flashing red and orange lights suddenly reflected off the walls. He hadn’t put on a gown yet, and a dazed expression took root in his features as he stared through the automatic doors at what she couldn’t quite see—

“They’re here!” the red-headed doctor announced.

Jaime didn’t move.

“For fuck’s sake...” Brienne grumbled, grabbing his arm and forcing him to look at her. He did so, his shocked sea-foam gaze meeting hers. “Put on a gown and some gloves, or get out of the way.”

The automatic doors opened and she held her breath. Jaime removed himself from the middle of the hallway to stumble into the wall, his panicked eyes training themselves on the first stretcher that was wheeled past.

At the sight of Tommen lying unresponsive, his hair and face blackened with soot and gore, a piece of debris lodged in his abdomen that continued to soak his shirt in blood, Brienne felt the scar on the tender flesh of her left inner thigh scorch her from the inside out.

_They had stopped in an inconspicuous town to use the bathroom of a local woman they knew well, the transfer of hospital supplies taking longer than they had originally planned. As usual, she gave them a basket of figs from the tree in her backyard, handing each of them a bottle of water; a gesture that was never lost on them, as they were all well aware of the water crisis the entire country was going through. Lt. Col. Seaworth wrapped his arms around her in a warm hug as Renly knelt in front of her son with a box of gloves in hands. The boy, maybe eight-years-old, giggled in delight as her best friend blew up a glove and tied it off, handing it to him._

_“People back home never think about this when they see us,” Renly mused a little while later, climbing into the vehicle. “All they see is sweat and sand. It’s like they forget about the people who live here.”_

_“I swear to god, Baratheon, if I didn’t already know you, I’d say you’re as gay as a friggin’ maypole,” Seaworth teased, handing him the basket of figs. “Even Tarth is made of tougher steel than that, and she’s got the best heart of all of us.”_

_She chortled and shook her head, knowing it to be a compliment coming from him. When she heard the woman saying farewell in Arabic, Brienne turned to thank her for the figs and water—_

_And then her world went sideways, forwards, and upside down all at once. As soon as her ears stopped ringing, she opened her eyes from where she was lying on the dusty street to see the woman sobbing, her tears gleaming in the light of the flames that had engulfed the frame of the vehicle._

_Renly._

_Brienne struggled to her feet, took one step, and collided with the pavement once more, her wrist emitting a cracking sound as it broke her fall. Her left thigh was warm, too warm, and the screams from other civilians had commenced in the streets, the woman running to help Lt. Col. Seaworth, unconscious on the ground—_

_Renly._

_Unable to stand, she crawled closer to the wreckage, pulling herself past a fig, unharmed by the explosion. She spotted the boy as he cowered behind a neighbor—_

_“Bri...”_

_She tilted her head to see Renly lying only a few feet away from her, his once handsome features black, his blue eyes standing out against the exposed flesh of his nose. His left shoulder twitched harshly as if to reach out to her, but his arm was gone._

_The moment she got to him she forced herself to sit up, pulling him into her lap as his life poured out of him. Her fingers touched his charred face, and as he coughed, she noticed the stark red shade of his blood against the dark canvas of his chin._

_“Loras... He, he can’t...”_

_She choked back tears as his cough became weaker._

_“Don’t you dare,” she ground out. “Don’t you fucking dare—”_

_“Look after him, Bri,” he begged, grasping her forearm with his only hand. “Promise me. Please...”_

_As her unrelenting tears broke through, she nodded. He smiled at her._

_“Stay on your feet...” he exhaled, unable to cough any longer as breathing itself became too much._

_She tried to smile back, her tears mingling with his blood as she remembered that dance at their first military ball._

_“And the music does the rest,” she finished for him._

_His eyes moved to the clouds, and then he was gone, sailing far beyond them._

“I’ll take this one,” the red-headed doctor told her, placing a gloved hand on her arm. “The girl will need you more than he does.”

Brienne nodded, and without another word, the woman in red was jogging down the hallway, her hands moving to pump the bag valve mask that had been placed over the boy’s nose and mouth as he was wheeled away. When Brienne looked at Jaime, his horrified gaze was following Tommen into the trauma room, but Dr. Payne was standing beside her, ready to take action.

She heard Myrcella before she saw her.

The sobs and moans echoed down the hall as her stretcher was wheeled around the corner, heading straight for them. Her left leg had a bright blue tourniquet tied around it above the knee, drawing attention to the fact that half of her lower leg was gone, and what remained was a tangled, incomprehensible mess of exposed muscle, bone, blood, and blackened skin. Her hair was flecked with ash, her arms painted with scratches that bled onto her lovely pink cocktail dress.

“Uncle Jaime!” the girl cried out when she saw him, her hands flying toward him.

He broke free from his trance at the sound of her voice calling to him, taking her hand and jogging next to the gurney opposite from Shae. Brienne and Dr. Payne joined in at the foot of the stretcher, and she glanced behind to see the final stretcher slowly being loaded in, this one carrying a large body covered with a sheet; the patient had been pronounced dead on arrival.

Tywin seemed uneasy as he considered the last stretcher, and it frightened her.

“I’m right here, Myrce...” she heard Jaime soothe. “You’re safe now. We’ve got you...”

Brienne brought her focus back to the girl as they rushed her through the double doors.

“Where are you taking me?” Myrcella breathed.

“To the operating room,” Dr. Payne chimed in, his Scottish dialect much more comforting than Brienne had expected it to be. “It’ll be over before you know it. You have our word.”

Brienne nodded in affirmation, and new tears wove a path down the girl’s filthy face as she pressed her eyes closed, her free hand covering her cheek as she sobbed. As Jaime stroked the delicate hand he was holding with his thumb, unable to restrain his own tears at the girl’s pain, Brienne knew with absolute certainty that the rumors were true: The children might not know, and the media may have only spread the possibility, but to her, it was obvious.

At the double doors, Brienne stopped in her tracks, realizing she had to call her father so her own family would know she’d be late getting home.

“I’ll be there in a second,” she told Shae, who shot her a worried look. “Quick phone call. Be sure to give her Ativan before Baelish anesthetizes. Dr. Payne, I need two—”

“Blood bags,” he finished, and her jaw relaxed, stunned that he had read her mind. “On it.”

“They should have called ahead,” she shouted after him as he took off down the hall, and he waved a hand over his head in response.

Another nurse charged through the double doors, already scrubbed and waiting, helping Shae tug the girl inside.

“Will you be there?” Myrcella pleaded with Jaime, petrified as his hand slipped out of her own.

“I’ll be waiting right outside,” he assured her.

Brienne’s phone was in her hand as soon as the doors closed, and when her father answered, she could tell how anxious he was.

“We saw it on the evening news. Are you at the hospital?”

After briefly explaining the situation, and accepting his offer to take the kids to school in the morning even though it was her day off, she hung up, turning to walk through the doors—

Jaime’s eyes were fixed on the floor as he wiped at his face, intensifying the fragmented way in which he exhaled. For a moment, Brienne imagined how she'd feel if it were Sansa, and how she’d hate being unable to stay in the room with her during the procedure.

“Come with me.”

He gaped at her, then shook his head.

“I can’t,” he countered. “I’m family. It’s against every rule that my father—”

“Oh, fuck the rules,” she muttered, exasperated. “Do you want to be there or not?”

Jaime’s incomprehensible stare met her own, but he nodded.

Dr. Payne brushed by them and through the doors, blood cooler in hand, Dr. Baelish on his heels. Brienne fell in line behind them, Jaime beside her.

As she stood by Myrcella’s injured left leg several minutes later, she could tell the Ativan injection had done its job; the girl had calmed considerably. Brienne set about organizing the saw and other necessary instruments on the tray while Jaime took his daughter’s hand, careful to stay out of everyone’s way.

“Uncle Jaime,” Myrcella murmured, a smile on her face. “You’re here...”

His eyes met Brienne’s over the surgical mask before he nodded, gazing back down at the girl.

“I’m not going anywhere, Myrce,” he asserted, “and Major Tarth is the best surgeon I know. We’re going to take care of you, okay?”

The girl wept, a tear managing to free itself as it made its way down her cheek, but this time he was there to catch it with his gloved hand.

“It’s time,” Dr. Baelish stated simply, and the girl winced.

“I’m so scared...” she whimpered.

Brienne watched Jaime stroke Myrcella's forehead as Baelish began anesthetization.

“I’ll be right here when you wake up,” he told her.

“Promise?”

Even through his mask, Brienne could see him smile.

“Promise.”

She averted her eyes when the girl’s own closed and Jaime pressed a kiss to her hand, a sob catching in his throat. At lunch, everything had seemed fine; these sweet, beautiful children had been happy and safe, eager to go to the beach next week. Now, one was fighting for his life, while the other was about to undergo an operation that would affect any future she might have.

What the hell had happened?

* * *

The operation lasted four hours, and Jaime didn’t let go of the girl’s hand the entire time, mumbling assurances in her ear every now and then that not even Myrcella could hear. Dr. Payne escorted them to post-op, and Brienne took the opportunity to head to Hot Pie’s for a cup of coffee, glancing at her phone as she waited for her latte and the extra lemon cakes Ros had set aside for the kids. All she saw was a text from Sandor, asking her what the kids had said about the adoption papers.

The adoption papers... They were still safely nestled in her backpack, but the thought of them remaining unmentioned for another day laid heavily in her heart. She took off her surgical cap and shoved it into her scrub pocket, tugging her hair out of its bun so vehemently it stung her scalp.

“Major Tarth,” a female voice crooned behind her.

Turning around, she saw the red-headed woman from the ED standing close by, her crimson scrubs bringing out the icy blue of her eyes.

“I’m so sorry we didn’t get a chance to meet before tonight,” the woman continued, extending a hand. “Dr. Asshai, night-shift physician for the emergency department.”

Brienne gave the woman a tired smile, shaking the proffered hand.

“Must be an exciting twelve hours in a place like this.”

Dr. Asshai smiled back, but there was an unexpected sadness to it.

“There’s an old proverb the Puritans used to say,” she deliberated, taking the coffee that was placed in front of her. “‘The night is dark and full of terrors.’ Sums it up quite nicely, if you ask me.”

As the barista handed Brienne a bag of lemon cakes and her to-go latte, she started in the direction of the elevators alongside Dr. Asshai.

“Do you know what happened?”

Dr. Asshai focused her eyes ahead of them, her pace slowing.

“It would seem that a plan to assassinate the president backfired,” she explained.

“You mean it didn’t kill him?” Brienne asked, incredulous.

“Oh, no, he’s dead,” Dr. Asshai verified. “But I don’t think the children were meant to be involved. Dr. Qyburn already publicly confessed to creating the bomb. He’s a chemist at Georgetown University. It was all over the evening news.” She took a deep breath. “But that’s not the worst of it.”

As they reached the elevators, Brienne leaned forward to press the up button for post-op, Dr. Asshai pressing the down button for the ED.

“What do you mean?” Brienne questioned.

The sidelong glance Dr. Asshai graced her with gave her a more thorough answer than words ever could.

“Cersei...?”

With that, Dr. Asshai took a sip from her coffee cup.

“It was only a matter of time until she did something drastic,” she said nonchalantly. “I hate that it hurt the kids, though. Tommen was such a kind thing...”

 _Was_.

The word flew through Brienne’s mind, ricocheting like a bullet as it singed every moment she’d spent with the boy at lunch. His grin, his laugh, his love of lemon cakes... Now when she saw all those pretty pictures, holding them up to the light that had glinted across his features, she recognized the same matte strokes of death that tainted her memories of Renly.

And his own mother had been the one holding the palette.

An elevator dinged, going down. Dr. Asshai stepped forward—

“Does Dr. Lannister know?” Brienne blurted, extending her arm between the doors so they’d remain open. “Has she been arrested?”

Dr. Asshai shrugged.

“If anyone knows the truth of what happened, it’s Tywin Lannister,” she disclosed. “Take care, Major Tarth. I’m sure we’ll meet again.”

And with that, Brienne nodded, stepping back and letting the doors close as her mind was torn open. 

Another elevator dinged, this time for her.

* * *

She walked down the hallway, bowing her head in a ‘hello’ to the night shift nurses, noticing that Shae was still working; Tywin had likely talked her into eighteen hours instead of her original twelve. Dr. Payne was sitting at one of the computers, buried in charting for the procedure.

A different Secret Serviceman stood outside the door, but she wasn’t surprised; no doubt Cersei had involved Clegane in the scheme. The man was likely in a jail cell by now, if Tywin had anything to do with it.

Before she stepped inside the girl’s room, she heard the gentle timbre of their voices.

“... Know you can stay with us,” Jaime’s voice pacified her.

“But what if mom—”

“There will be no need to worry about your mother,” Tywin’s grave bass echoed. “I’ll see to that.”

A moment of silence stretched out between them, and her hand went to the door handle—

“I never want to see her again,” the girl growled, her voice breaking into tears. “Not after what she did to me. To Tommen...”

Her voice dissolved under the weight of her sorrow then, and Brienne took that as her cue to discreetly enter the room, placing the bag of lemon cakes in a chair by the window.

“Major Tarth,” Tywin began, “I would have thought you’d be home with your own family by now.”

Brienne sighed, combing a hand through her hair.

“I wanted to check on my patient first.”

Coffee in hand, Brienne ignored Tywin, moving to stand across from Jaime so she could look down at them both.

“How is the—”

“Thank you,” Myrcella tearfully interrupted, the hand Jaime wasn’t holding reaching for her. “Thank you so much for taking care of me.”

Brienne glanced at Jaime then, whose eyes were bloodshot from crying, and she realized Tywin must have told them about Tommen; it certainly supported the frigid tone the girl had used when she spoke of her mother.

She took the girl’s hand, sitting on the bed beside her and putting her coffee on the nightstand.

“I’m so sorry this happened to you,” she consoled, “and I’m sorry about your brother.”

Myrcella choked on a sob as Jaime clutched her hand more tightly with both his own, his eyes shining with fresh tears.

“Dr. Lannister?”

A nurse was standing at the door, his head peeking through.

“There’s a call for you on line—”

“Who is it?” Tywin bit out.

The nurse’s mouth fell open.

“It’s the morgue...” he explained warily. “They’re wondering about—”

Tywin had stalked out of the room and closed the door behind him before the man could finish his sentence.

Scanning the room and seeing the girl had nothing to wipe her face with, Brienne went into the bathroom, grabbing the extra roll of toilet paper and tearing it from its wrapping. She resumed her position on the edge of the bed, handing Myrcella the entire roll.

“Do I have to stay here long?” the girl questioned as she tore off a long piece, handing it to Jaime.

“It depends on how you heal,” Brienne said with sincerity, “but I don’t think you’ll be here for more than six or seven days.”

For the first time since she’d entered the room, Myrcella smiled, turning to Jaime.

“Does that mean I can move in with you next week?” she asked hopefully.

Jaime chuckled as he finished blowing his nose with the folded piece of tissue, settling in closer to her so he could card his fingers through her hair with a nod.

“It’s not a trip to the beach, but I’m sure it will be just as exciting.”

The girl’s laugh sang through the room, and the roll of tissue was set aside.

“Have you had anything to eat?” Brienne probed.

Myrcella shook her head, so she stood, walking to the window to retrieve a lemon cake. She gingerly took one from the top of the pile inside—

“Myrcella...?” she heard Jaime say, concern apparent in his voice.

The girl didn’t respond. Brienne looked over to see the girl’s fearful eyes on her as she failed to properly draw breath into her lungs.

“Myrcella!” Jaime’s panicked voice rang out, and Brienne was by his side straightaway, leaning over the horrified teenager, her brow furrowed in confusion as the monitor began to beep.

Her O2 saturation was 86% and dropping.

It made no sense for a thirteen-year-old, but a massive pulmonary embolism was the only logical conclusion. She looked at Jaime, who pushed the chair back and out of the way without question as she launched herself at the head of the bed, yanking the call light out of the wall. She heard it ring incessantly at the desk outside, and when the unit secretary began to answer—

“Crash cart,” Brienne commanded. “Now!”

The monitor began to beep even more incessantly. 77%.

Brienne caressed the girl’s forehead even as her lips began to turn blue, but she didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t give the girl nitroglycerin; she’d only been out of surgery for fifty minutes, and the amount of blood she’d lose in the process would mean certain death for someone so young.

She had no chance. No chance, and no choice.

Within moments, Shae and Dr. Payne were rushing the crash cart into the room, Tywin directly behind the other nurses that flooded in behind them. He asked Brienne something, but she couldn’t hear him over the pounding of blood in her ears or the wheezing sounds Myrcella was making as her emerald eyes rolled into the back of her head, her eyelids shutting as her flawless complexion faded into a waxy gray.

63%, then 51%. The telemetry monitor picked up several ventricular tachycardia waveforms, then no waves at all. She punched the Code Blue button on the wall above the bed.

“Myrcella...” she heard Jaime whisper brokenly behind her.

Brienne threw the blankets back, her right hand weaving over her left as she began chest compressions, her hair falling over her shoulders and into her face.

_One, two, three, four, five, six..._

“Bag valve mask!” she exclaimed.

Outside she could hear the announcement—

_“Code Blue, South Tower, fifth floor, room 551...”_

“Defibrillator!”

She turned the girl’s petite body toward her so they could place the back pad on her. Shae pressed the orange button—

 _“Stand clear,”_ the machine told them before it shocked the girl.

_“Begin compressions.”_

Fifteen minutes passed in such a fashion, part of which was spent standing by so her body could rest. Shae was performing compressions on the lifeless teenager, but Brienne could see the tears that were trailing down the woman’s cheeks as her arms began to give out.

She took a shuddering breath, knowing it was time.

“Stop.”

All eyes flew to her as she stepped toward the bed, her chin trembling. Shae had ceased her compressions, but her fingers remained interlocked over the girl’s heart, her sobs shaking her body. Brienne covered the woman’s hands with her own as she glanced at the clock.

“Time of death: 2320.”

As Shae’s fingers desperately held onto hers, Brienne’s gaze met Tywin’s, and instead of the sadness she had expected to see there, she saw rage. He stormed out of the room, and it was only then that Brienne remembered Jaime was still there, his countenance dull and lifeless as he stared at his daughter from the foot of the bed. The other nurses turned off the monitors and disconnected the pad cords from the defibrillator, removing the crash cart from the room so it could charge. His face a damp, blank slate, Jaime followed Dr. Payne out without a word.

“It’s not fair,” Shae murmured through her tears.

Brienne circled the bed and wrapped her arms around the shorter woman, pulling her close as her own tears overwhelmed her.

“It never is.”

* * *

It was 11:30 by the time she left the nurse aides to their work, stroking the girl’s forehead one last time before she left the room with the bag of lemon cakes, her coffee forgotten. She’d anticipated seeing Jaime outside, but when she found the hallway empty, she frowned, heading for the elevators that would take her to Tywin’s office. Perhaps he was there with his father.

She shouldn’t be concerned about him. Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer; the doctor responsible for the forgery of a DNR signature on Aerys Targaryen’s advanced directive paperwork; a man who had slept with his toxic sister so many times in the past that he had managed to father three children by her; a recovering alcoholic who had all but killed a ten-year-old boy she dearly loved...

The same man who doted on his patients and expertly addressed the concerns of their families; who was devoted to the children he had fathered, despite the fact that they would never know who he truly was to them; who had tortured himself day in and day out by helping her with paperwork she’d never seen prior to receiving this job.

If she was honest with herself, she had no idea what she thought of him anymore.

It was with these tangled reflections that she opened the door of Tywin’s office to see the golden lion himself, standing over his father’s desk, a glass in one hand and an open bottle of scotch in the other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, like the one before it, was inspired by Lana Del Rey's 'High by the Beach'. The chapter title has been planned for at *least* two months. Yes; that means I wrote a beautiful chapter to get Brienne invested in these kids only to kill them as I had planned to do some time ago. Sorry, not sorry. Unlike D&D, however, my twists aren't self-serving and actually serve a freakin' purpose. 
> 
> Healthcare Heads-Up:  
> \- Pulmonary embolisms (blood clots preventing the flow of blood to the lungs) are common, and typically treated with nitroglycerin pills, which thins the blood. Giving a very recent post-op patient these pills would likely kill them within minutes.  
> \- I'm certified by the American Heart Association in Basic Life Support (including CPR), but never actually *knocks on wood first* witnessed a full-on code on a patient. I've heard them called over the intercom, and know the procedure to follow, so this is what you got. (*shrugs*)  
> \- An advanced directive is the paperwork a hospital gives you to sign explaining what you want them to do if you *do* code while in their care. A doctor must explain this information and put it into the computer (in North Carolina, anyway). 
> 
> Shoutout to lannisteroftarth on Tumblr for the surgical question help, as always! And, of course, the 'no chance, no choice' bit goes to GRRM.
> 
> For funsies, this is what I imagine 43-year-old Jaime looking like throughout a lot of this fic. Jaw-length hair, dark eyes, tired face... Here ya go. https://shyguypisces.tumblr.com/post/180173487110/nikolaj-coster-waldau
> 
> Your kudos and comments have been making this story worthwhile, so I hope you enjoyed it, and that you leave me more of them! :) Next chapter will be Jaime's POV.


	7. Baby, I Just Need One Good One - Jaime III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime makes a choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! Thank you all *so much* for your comments and kudos on that last chapter. My heart was alight with love for this community with every e-mail I received. Welcome to those of you who are new to the ride, and everyone else, hope you enjoy it!

“What are you doing?”

He couldn’t even bring himself to look up as she stood there, staring instead at the glass in his hand as he poured the amber miracle into it, swirling it around, the sweet scent luring him in more than anything else ever could. The sight of it was hazy due to the dryness of his eyes from the tears he’d shed, but he could hardly be bothered by that now; not when he’d lost every reason he had not to.

“I’m quitting,” he said simply, raising the glass to his lips.

“No,” Major Tarth persisted, stepping forward and closing the door behind her. “You can’t.”

“It’s my life,” he growled. “I’ll throw it away if I want.”

Jaime raised the glass again—

“You’re hungry,” she told him, and he released an annoyed sigh, the glass falling to his chest as she approached the desk. “You’re angry, you’re lonely, and you’re tired. Any one of those is enough to make someone want to relapse—”

“And what do you think I should do about it?” he bit out, finally looking at her. “I could eat until I vomit, scream until my voice is gone, fuck half the city, sleep for _days_ , but it wouldn’t change anything...! None of it would change the fact that those children were _good_. They were _kind_. They were nothing like us...” The tears threatened him with their fists again; he could feel them as they choked his throat, and he swallowed hard against their onslaught. “And now they’re gone. My two greatest reasons not to have been wiped from the face of the earth like they never existed in the first place, and _she’s_ the one that took them from me.”

When he was through, he felt his grip on the glass loosen, but she was frozen, her incredulous sapphire eyes fixed on him.

“So find another reason.”

He braced his hands on the table, the glass clinking as it hit the desk. She made it sound so goddamned—

“If you think it’s so easy, why don’t you give me one?” he challenged. “Go ahead.”

Jaime watched with cynical amusement as her lips parted, then closed again. She shook her head after a moment, her tall figure slowly crumpling into the seat of the barrel chair, the brown paper bag she’d been holding resting in her lap.

“I can’t.”

He smirked then, his grip on the glass tightening as he lifted it from the table.

“No one can,” she explained. “You have to find your own reason. It’s your sobriety.”

His hand stilled as his eyes bore into her own. He’d never noticed the uniqueness of their color; more opulent than curaçao, with the transparency of a fresh bottle of Skyy vodka.

Even now, alcohol was all he could think about. He studied the glass of scotch.

“And if I’m incapable of finding a reason?” he whispered. “What then?”

A moment of silence settled over them as she pondered his words.

“Then you’ll come home with me for the night.”

He chuckled in disbelief.

“Why the hell would I do that?” he questioned.

“Do you have any other options?” she probed, her irritation slipping through the placid surface. “Your brother’s going to treat you like you’re made of glass. Is that what you want?”

“Tyrion would never—”

“Does he have anything you could drink around the home?” she pressed on. “Because if he does, I promise that he’ll tread around you so lightly you’ll mistake him as a principal skater for Disney on Ice.”

His inability to answer was apparently all she needed, and though he hated to admit it, she had a point; he could hardly go home tonight. Tyrion would want to talk about everything and somehow nothing all at once, and the children would surely haunt him in that place; he also knew _exactly_ where Tyrion kept his fifth of Casamigos tequila. It would be gone in two hours.  

“Won’t it be odd to have me around the Starks?” he rationalized.

“That’s my problem to solve,” she countered, “and I finished my wine yesterday, so there’s nothing in the house to tempt you.”

He continued to stare at her, her own penetrating gaze unwavering as she stood, placing the paper bag on the table as she crossed her arms.

“If you don’t have a reason not to, we should remove you from the circumstances until you feel stable enough to find one.”

The resolve in her voice and the way she looked at him forced him to see the redness of her eyes and cheeks; the way her blonde hair fell past her shoulders in wild, tousled locks, usually held back so strictly in her typical low bun.

For the first time since she’d walked into the office, he saw how much pain she was in. The monsters of ‘why’ and ‘what did I miss’ were running amok across her face, and it almost gave him some measure of peace to know that she was hurting like him; that he wasn’t alone in something for once.

It took less strength than he imagined it would, but he stepped back, putting distance between himself and his greatest weakness as he circled the desk, trading places with her to sit in his mother’s chair. Major Tarth took what he had poured, using the corners of the glass to pour it back into the bottle.

She had just replaced the cork in the neck when his father opened the door, prowling into the room.

“Ah, there you are,” he confirmed when he saw Jaime, his nostrils flaring when he saw the bottle of scotch.

“May I ask what you think you’re doing, Major Tarth?”

Jaime avoided his father’s eyes, concentrating instead on the former soldier as she towered over the desk as well as his father, the bottle still in her hand.

“Of all people, I would have thought you’d recognize a negotiation when you see one,” was all she said in return.

He could practically feel the heat of his father’s anger as it pulsed into the room around them.

“Careful, major,” Tywin warned. “Negotiations are, after all, only as good as the terms they keep. It would seem a fair few of our terms fell by the wayside this evening, wouldn’t you say?”

Major Tarth’s mouth opened to respond—

“She stopped me,” Jaime proclaimed, jumping to his feet and facing his father. “I was going to—”

“Yes, yes,” Tywin waved him away, “you were about to break into my most expensive scotch and drink your woes away, I’m well—”

“How _dare_ you.”

Jaime’s eyes flew to her in shock.

“Excuse me?” Tywin tested, mock confusion creasing his forehead.

“Major...” Jaime murmured, hoping she wouldn’t—

“When I took this job, I wasn’t aware that I’d be dealing with the most difficult consequences of your actions _for_ you,” she blatantly declared as she stared at Tywin, setting the bottle on the table with a _thunk_ , “but I’ve done it. Because I love my family, my job, my patients. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for them. But you...” She huffed in exasperation. “You’ve managed to build the most successful healthcare corporation in the United States. You've funded the campaigns of five successful presidential candidates. You know everything there is to know about money, but you’re completely and utterly blind to the needs of your own children.” 

Tywin stood there, gagged by his fury as it painted the inelastic features of his face in shellac. Jaime, however, stood with his mouth slightly open, dumbfounded in the wake of her words.

“I can take your threats,” she persevered, gritting her teeth. “I can take your daughter’s insults. I can even take the pain of failing to save that sweet girl. But I _won’t_ stand by and watch you dismiss your son when he successfully deals with the repercussions of your neglect on his own. Not after what happened tonight.”

“Neglect...?” Tywin began as he moved toward her, his emerald eyes darkening. “Is that what you think it was?”

“We’re healthcare providers, Dr. Lannister,” she reminded him coldly. “I learned the meaning of the word as it pertains to people just as well as you did, I’m sure.”

Jaime saw his father’s fists clench in rage, but Major Tarth didn’t budge. If he didn’t get her out of here soon, he was positive she’d say something that would ruin any chance she had of salvaging this situation.

“We should go,” he suggested, taking the brown paper bag and tilting his head at the door.

“Go where?” Tywin demanded.

“I’m staying with her tonight,” Jaime elaborated, moving to leave. “It’s the safest option I have.”

His father considered him, his fists relaxing, then turned to her as she made her way around the desk.

“And what do you suppose the children will think of this arrangement?”

She paused for only a moment to face Tywin, their height evenly matched.

“If they have any concerns, they know they can talk to me.”

Even Jaime caught himself smiling a little at the protective undertone of her words, and as they reached the doorway—

“Major Tarth...”

They froze, the major looking over her shoulder.

“Take tomorrow off,” he instructed, giving Jaime a wary glance. “Both of you.”

Jaime met the major’s eyes, his uncertainty in his father’s change of disposition reflected there.

“We’re already off tomorrow,” she clarified, “but we’ll take the day after that.”

Tywin bowed his head in agreement.

“I’ll send you the preliminary results of the autopsy.”

He heard Major Tarth take an uneven breath, and when she didn’t speak, he held out an arm, encouraging her to lead the way out.

She did.

* * *

When they reached her office to grab their things, Dr. Payne was waiting for them, slouched over in one of the plastic chairs as he wiped his eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Dr. Lannister,” he apologized. “I don’t understand what happened.”

Major Tarth retrieved her backpack as Jaime shouldered his satchel, patting the young man on the back with his free hand.

“It’s nobody’s fault,” he assured him, trying not to let his grief engulf him once more.

Dr. Payne exhaled, looking up at the major.

“Will there be an autopsy?”

She nodded, and the young man inhaled deeply as he stood.

“Right, well, I’d better—”

“Take the next two days,” she softly directed. “We won’t be back until Saturday. I’ll review your notes then.”

Dr. Payne headed for the hallway, hesitating as he reached the door.

“Would you send me the results?” he posed. “I’d feel better knowing what...”

When he couldn’t finish his sentence, the major sighed.

“I’ll forward them to you as soon as I have them.”

The young man gave them a weak attempt at a smile, trudging through the doorway and out of sight. It was then Jaime felt the warm brush of fingers against his own as she took the paper bag from his hand, stepping into the hall. He followed, locking the door handle with a click before closing it, trailing behind her as they walked to the employee parking deck.

They remained silent as they approached her silver Volvo SUV, and once they were buckled inside, she handed him the bag.

“Don’t put it on the floor.”

“What’s in here, anyway?” he asked, holding the bag up for examination, noting the grease stains that had started to seep through.

When he looked back at her, her oversized lips were twisted in the first genuine smile he’d seen since the events of earlier.

“Ros left me several lemon cakes for the kids,” she said plainly, turning the key in the ignition. “They’re Sansa’s favorite.”

The ride into Georgetown was short; there was only so much traffic in the city around midnight on a Wednesday, and they pulled into the driveway of the Victorian home nearly fifteen minutes later. Even in the darkness, Jaime could see the beauty of its pale blue color; the way the lilies that sprouted from below the porch kissed the white railing like a blushing maiden from a fairytale. Warm lamplight echoed onto the porch from the foyer as they ascended the steps, revealing the sunken state of the porch swing cushion.

“They should be asleep,” she said evenly as she unlocked the door. “You can stay in my room. I’ll sleep with Sansa.”

They made their way inside, and after she keyed in the code to the security system, they crept through the dining room and into the kitchen, where she placed the bag of lemon cakes on the counter by the fruit bowl.

The interior of the house was as stunning as the exterior, the blue of its walls joining the rich browns of the furniture in a way that reminded him of the beach.

_“Does that mean I can move in with you next week?” Myrcella had asked him, her sweet voice full of hope.  
_

_“It’s not a trip to the beach, but I’m sure it will be just as exciting.”_

He turned away, busying himself with studying the dining room as the tears took hold of him again, fumbling with the stapled papers he saw laying in front of him in an effort to focus his eyes. It looked like... Incomplete chemistry homework?

“Bri, I’m sorry. I know it’s late, but I was wondering if—”

Jaime’s tears ceased as Sansa Stark rounded the corner, her words dying in her throat the moment she saw him.

“Dr. Lannister...?”

He sighed, tiredly wiping his face as he felt the caress of air that was Major Tarth striding past him and toward the girl.

“What’s _he_ doing here?” the girl accused as her guardian grasped her shoulders, guiding her to the foot of the stairs.

“...Stay here tonight,” he heard Major Tarth say, attempting to appease the girl. “Maybe even tomorrow. But it’s only...”

“...Did to Bran, and you’re just going to...”

“...Ignoring it, but if he doesn’t stay with us...”

“...Arya finds out? Do you really think he’s worth...”

Their hushed voices carried so easily they might as well have been having the conversation right in front of him, and once the major’s rose sharply in tone, the girl’s footfalls resounded as she all but stomped up the stairs.

Major Tarth forcefully expelled a breath as she reentered the dining room, shrugging her backpack off as a tired scowl crept onto her features.

“Follow me.”

She led him through the living room and into her bedroom, crossing to the desk by the window and turning on the lamp as she began to unpack her bag, dropping some papers onto the surface with a _thump_. He gingerly sat on the far side of the bed, taking in his surroundings as he removed his satchel from his shoulder, letting it fall to the floor in front of the nightstand.

Her bedroom was similarly colored, though the blues here were deeper, with more white than brown to offset the saturation. His hand grazed the cotton of the snowy comforter beneath him, and he immediately wanted to bury himself under its softness.

The sound of his phone incessantly buzzing startled him out of his thoughts, and he stood for a moment to remove it from his back pocket, sliding his thumb across the screen when he saw it was Tyrion.

“Where the hell are you?”

“Georgetown,” Jaime answered. “I’m staying with Major Tarth. Her, uh—her house is dry.”

When the line fell quiet, he knew his brother understood.

“How close did you come?” Tyrion inquired.

Jaime watched as the major walked to her dresser, pulling out two pairs of pajamas, tossing one set onto the bed beside him as she entered the bathroom with the other.

“Too close.”

“You should have called me,” his brother moaned. “I could have—”

“There was nothing you could have done, Ty.”

The sound of his brother’s choppy breathing told him just how hard he was crying.

“I’m so sorry,” he sobbed. “I wish I could have been there. Those kids... I want you to know they meant the world to me, Jaime.”

“You were the best uncle they could have had,” the older man soothed, though his own tears were starting to renew themselves. “They loved you so much.”

Neither brother said a word for a few minutes, simply relishing in the fact that though they were several miles apart, they were both grieving the same loss.

When Major Tarth exited the bathroom, tossing her scrubs into the hamper, Jaime rubbed the back of his hand against his face and sniffled, earning a box of tissues on top of the pajamas awaiting him.

“I should go,” Jaime admitted. “It’s late, and I’m sure you’re going to go to work anyway.”

“Of course I am,” Tyrion confirmed. “The best way to distract oneself from drowning in tears is to drown in shit. Works every time.”

“Your employees drown in shit,” he corrected. “You deal with everything else.”

Finally, his little brother chuckled.

“Well, _managing_ the treatment plant does have its perks,” Tyrion teased, though Jaime could have sworn he heard him blow his nose through the phone. “If you need anything, call me, okay?”

“I will.”

“Hey! Before you hang up, let me talk to her.”

Jaime glanced at Major Tarth, who was leaning over the desk, thumbing through the papers she’d left there.

“Major...” he said, holding the phone out to her. “He wants to talk to you.”

She took it, bewildered.

“Tyrion?”

Rather than listen to the conversation, Jaime took the pajamas and went into the bathroom to change, the flawlessly white tile floor grounding him as it chilled his bare feet. Her bathtub and shower were separate, he noticed as he changed, likely due to the larger size of the tub. Perhaps he could use it tomorrow.

As he washed his hands, he caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror; he could hardly tell his eyes were green for how red they had become, his cheeks a splotchy pink, the roots of his hair dark and oily with sweat. His appearance hardly mattered anymore, but he was suddenly glad to be in the home of someone who didn’t care about looks. Drying his hands on the light blue towel, he took a steadying breath, flipping the light switch behind him.

She was sitting on the other side of the bed, his phone in her hands when he came out.

“What did he say?”

Jaime could tell how exhausted she was in the slow way she stood, turning to hand him his phone.

“He wanted to thank me,” she replied, a note of discomfort in her voice.

“He should,” Jaime reinforced. “What you’re doing here... Most people wouldn’t care. They’d have let me down the whole bottle without a second thought. But you didn’t. And what you said to my father...”

An emotion he’d never seen on her before transformed her features, and it trickled into his veins in a way he didn’t understand.

“You’ve worked hard the last four months,” she confessed, crossing her arms across her chest, inadvertently drawing attention to the cropped t-shirt she’d put on and the flat, muscular abdomen beneath it. “I couldn’t just sit by and watch you give up. Not after everything you’ve done. It wouldn’t have been right.”

Rather than respond, he nodded, swallowing hard.

“They fit,” she mused aloud, staring at his legs. “The pajamas. I wasn’t sure they would.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, clearing his throat as his gaze fell to his feet. “They’re, uh... They’re comfortable.”

 _Comfortable?_ What was wrong with him?

“I’d better check on Sansa,” she concluded swiftly, heading for the living room. “There’s some fruit in the kitchen if you get hungry. Oh—” Stopping in her tracks, she gave him a knowing look over her shoulder. “I set the door alarm when we came in, by the way.”

He shuffled his feet on the hardwood floor, snaking his hands into the pockets of her unbelievably warm pajama pants.

“So, I’m under house arrest?”

She rolled her eyes, bracing herself against the door frame.

“Goodnight, Mr. Lannister,” she said with finality, closing the door behind her.

While the bed did its best to attract him, Jaime took a moment to circle the room, trying to understand the woman he’d been working with for the last four months. There were two bookcases, but no television; he wasn’t particularly surprised by that, but he’d be willing to bet money that each of the Starks had one in their bedrooms.

A folded flag in a shadow box caught his attention atop the bookcases full of non-fiction, and as he got closer, he saw Renly’s name etched onto the glass; she must have taken it after Loras killed himself. Jaime recalled the way he’d joked about his brother-in-law at lunch, and how hurt she had been at his implication. He thought he had wanted to retract those words when her eyes reflected her pain, but now, after she had done so much for him, he wanted to run upstairs and apologize to her for being such an ass.

Lying next to the flag was a set of well-worn dog tags. As he peered at them, he saw Tarth, Brienne, and her social security number. There was a line for blood type that said ‘A Pos’, and his brain hardly registered the ‘no preference’ on the religion line as he felt a tug in his chest at the humbling evidence that she had served in the army. It was one thing to hear her called ‘major’ so often, and to use that title himself when he addressed her, but connecting it to field hospitals and gunfire wasn’t something he’d actually done until now.    

Tearing himself away from the shelf and moving toward the window, he savored the feel of the supple rug that rested at the foot of the bed as it spilled beneath his toes.

Despite how clean and neatly organized the room was, Jaime couldn’t say the same for the surface of her desk. None of the documents he could see were related to the hospital; in fact, most of them were papers the kids had brought home from the school they’d transferred to after Ned had discovered Joffrey’s abuse of Sansa. There was a permission form for Arya to attend a swim meet the following week in Baltimore, beneath which a formal request by a local gallery to showcase Sansa’s fashion design work had already been signed.

Adjacent to these, however, was a packet of legal paperwork. The sticky note on the topmost sheet bore a short message in cursive.

_My dear Bri,_

_Start at the top and work your way through. If you have any questions, call me. Good luck._

_Mamaw Olenna_

Mrs. Tyrell had given these to her? But why? He lifted the topmost sheet to see—

An adoption request form. Three of them, actually.

He pulled his fingers back as though he had been scorched, the realization that she was trying to adopt the Starks gutting him as he sat in the desk chair, his head in his hands.

If Myrcella had lived, Jaime would have done the same. Even if she’d never known the truth, having the opportunity to take care of her would have been the highlight of his otherwise miserable life. He rubbed his weary face, understanding just what he would have taken away from this woman.

The bright reds and blues of a brochure by his elbow caught his attention, and he picked it up, reading the cover.

**H.A.L.T.: A Guide to Self-Care for the Recovering Addict**

What the hell...?

As he opened it, words he recognized far too well fell off the page and into his lap, bathing him in chills.

 _“You’re hungry,”_ she had said. _“You’re angry, you’re lonely, and you’re tired. Any one of those is enough to make someone want to relapse...”_

 **H** ungry. **A** ngry. **L** onely. **T** ired. HALT.

It was an elementary thing to remember, something he’d been taught at rehab during his first ninety days. How had he forgotten it?

As he unfolded the brochure, he noticed that several bits and pieces had been highlighted, and his stomach clenched at the sight of those yellow markings.

She truly didn’t want him to fail. Whether she was doing it for him or for the Starks didn’t matter; someone other than his brother had actually done their own research on how to help him; to stop and compel him to think when he’d willingly give up any chance at reclaiming his license to submerge himself in a bottle of whatever was handy.

_“You have to find your own reason. It’s your sobriety.”_

Placing the brochure where he’d found it, he stood, turning off the lamp as his eyes fell on the packet of papers Olenna had obtained for her. It wasn’t a reason he would have contemplated an hour ago, but with his little girl’s smile in his mind, he thumbed the edges of the stack, knowing it would be enough.

He silenced his phone and crawled beneath the comforter on one side of the king-sized bed, the gentle scent of lavender drifting into his nostrils from the pillow, lulling him into a blessedly dreamless sleep.

* * *

The feeling of the mattress sinking under someone else’s weight stirred him, and he woke to see her tall silhouette crawling under the covers on the other side, her back to him as the blossoming rays of sun began to invade her window. He peeked at the clock; it was only 7:17 AM.

“I thought you were sleeping with Sansa...”

“I was,” she said, drowsiness creeping into her voice. “Dad just took them to school.”

Jaime pulled the covers back over his shoulder, remembering how upset Sansa had been the night before.

“Was she okay?” he whispered.

He felt the comforter tug on his torso slightly as the major took a deep breath.

“She’s very intelligent,” she conceded. “Her head gets the better of her sometimes, but she’ll be fine. Arya, on the other hand—”

“You told them?”

She rolled onto her back, rising up to her elbows and looking over at him.

“We don’t keep secrets in this house,” she retorted, “and we _never_ lie. Of course I told them.”

Her hair fell over her shoulders in a mess of straw blonde waves, and her astonishingly blue eyes were puffy, cradled by the same dark circles he knew he likely had. The way the light of early morning shone in the room, tracing the breadth of her shoulders and the uneven lines of her nose—

“You don’t look so great yourself, you know,” she muttered, moving back to her side.

He frowned.

“That’s not—”

“We’ve got another hour, then we’re leaving for Fredericksburg. You should rest.”

When she didn’t move or speak again, he rolled over to face the bathroom, closing his eyes and wondering how he had managed to break the delicate truce between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was inspired by 'Million Reasons' by Lady Gaga on a rough day going home from work. #kween
> 
> Your kudos and comments gave me life last chapter. I hope you're willing to leave just as many here! (*jazz hands*)
> 
> Next chapter should easily be out before Friday of next week, since it's pretty much already written inside my head... Not to mention, as of Tuesday, I will be done with school until January! This puppy should be finished by the end of the year. (*pats story proudly*)
> 
> The interior colors of Evenfall are based on this here Tumblr post: https://becketts.tumblr.com/post/186318041145.
> 
> If you get bored, or want to know more of my personality, hop on over to https://ofaclassicalmind.tumblr.com/ and follow for fun Brienne/Jaime posts, science nerd jokes, and occasional hilarity. We're close to about a quarter of the way through the story, but once we're closer to the end I'll be throwing my Spotify playlist for this bad boy up on my blog!


	8. How Everything is Torn - Jaime IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime learns more about his supervisor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this is the hardest chapter I've written of anything ever (not to mention the longest thus far), so I apologize for the two-day delay in uploading. 
> 
> As always, Selwyn is portrayed by Stellan Skarsgård, but Goodwin will be played in my mind by Geoffrey Rush. 
> 
> Your first mostly Jaime/Brienne only chapter, so I hope you enjoy! (*jazz hands as she exits stage left*)

He woke again to see the sun had finished its trek into the sky, drowning her room with its merciless light. The clock on the nightstand read 8:34 AM, and he groaned, rolling over to see a stack of clothes where she’d laid beside him.

“You should change,” her garbled voice came from the bathroom door.

Sitting up and rubbing his irritated eyes, he focused on her, her skillful fingers working her toothbrush over her teeth, toothpaste foam smeared on her chin. Her hair had been brushed and woven into a comely braid that suited her, and she’d obviously washed her face, almost every remnant of the previous night wiped from her complexion. The only feature that gave her away was her bloodshot eyes.

“The clothes are dad’s,” the major elaborated around the toothbrush, reentering the bathroom as the sound of her spitting into the sink inelegantly pierced the air. “I thought they might suit you better.”

That was odd, considering she had commented on how well her _own_ pajamas had fit him the previous night. Jaime leaned over to pick through the pile of clothes, unfolding a pair of swim trunks, the crease between his eyebrows deepening as he examined them.

“Are we going swimming?”

“I am,” she announced, exiting the bathroom with an armful of towels and dropping them on the bed, a can of sunscreen in her hand as she went to the closet. “It’s up to you, but if you do, I’d wear the trunks under the pants.”

As she reached in and pulled out a pair of old, mud-stained army combat boots, tugging them on without sitting, he noticed that she was wearing the same cropped shirt she’d slept in, a navy blue halter swimsuit peeking out at him from her lower back as she bent over to retrieve something else. Of course, _that_ was when he saw the Bermuda-style hiking shorts she’d chosen, the sheer power of her knees and calves laid bare. When she straightened, she was holding a sleek, black backpack into which she dropped the sunscreen.

“Right,” she said simply, stalking to the bed and shoving the towels into the bag. “I’ll be in the kitchen when you’re done. You don’t have any dietary restrictions, do you?”

After a moment of hesitation, he shook his head, utterly perplexed by this woman.

“Good. There’s a new toothbrush on the sink.”

And without another word, she left the room, slinging the backpack over her shoulder.

* * *

He intentionally failed to check his phone while he dressed in her father’s clothes, going out of his way to make up her blankets and pillows after he’d brushed his teeth. Though he’d never actually _slept_ in a bed with a grown woman until that morning, he could recall the few times Myrcella had curled up in bed him as a little girl when Cersei and Robert left the kids at his place, or the way two-year-old Tommen would fall asleep on his chest as he tried to watch the evening news, the boy’s heart beating steadily against his own. That was years ago, before he’d started—

“You okay there?”

Jaime straightened, hastily wiping the tears from his face as he turned to see the intruder standing in the now open doorway. The older man was as tall as the major, with the same blue eyes; his, however, gradually swept into creases provided by a life well-lived, the dancing partner of the laugh lines that softened his tan cheeks. Even now, Jaime could see a few locks of golden hair weaving its way into the silver crown that adorned his head.

“Brienne told me what happened,” the stranger explained as he stepped forward, his hands in his pockets. “I’m sorry. Losing people we love is never easy, but the death of a child... It hits a lot harder than people might think.”

Forcing the grief back down his throat at the man’s kind words, Jaime averted his gaze, unable to form any sentences of gratitude in the fog that consumed him.

“Selwyn Tarth,” the man introduced himself, extending a hand. “You must be Dr. Lannister.”

Jaime winced, shaking it.

“It’s Jaime,” he assured the man. “Just Jaime.”

“Dr. Lannister sounds too much like your old man, I take it?” Selwyn commented, releasing his hand.

“You have no idea.”

The taller man chuckled, giving Jaime reason to question if this was truly the major’s father.

“Jaime it is, then,” Selwyn concluded, peering over his shoulder at the kitchen and giving Jaime a knowing look. “You’d best be on your way. She’ll give you hell if you’re late.”

The ghost of a smile tickled the corners of Jaime’s lips, and he nodded in agreement, pocketing his phone and walking out to meet her. She was waiting in the dining room, clutching a gallon of water and her keys.

“I’ll pick the kids up from school this afternoon,” Selwyn informed her, “that way you can take all the time you need.”

Major Tarth opened the front door, her features full of gratitude for her father.

“I’ll grab something for dinner on the way back,” she offered, “and tell Sansa I’ll check her chemistry homework as soon as I get home.”

Selwyn bowed his head in acknowledgment.

“Be safe, starlight.”

Jaime hardly had time to appreciate her blush at the pet name as she strode through the door and down the porch steps.

* * *

The first half hour of the drive was spent in absolute silence, after which they stopped at a convenience store to get some coffee and gas. He was buckling himself into the seat when his stomach growled so loudly he saw her roll her eyes and grasp behind her seat for the backpack, dropping it in his lap as she turned the key in the ignition and pulled out onto the road.

“There’s a protein bar in the front pocket,” she clarified. “The sandwiches are for later.”

Confused, he unzipped the portion closest to him.

“But what will you—”

His words were cut short as she unceremoniously reached over and plunged her hand into the front pocket, withdrawing an apple and biting into it. Once he located the protein bar, he gingerly placed the backpack in the back seat, tearing the wrapper open and taking a bite. The feel of the chocolate and peanut butter melting in his mouth made him moan, and she smiled, apparently amused by his enjoyment. Swallowing what was in his mouth, he scowled.

“It’s not funny,” he insisted. “I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since—”

_Since lunch with the kids_.

Rather than complete the sentence, he took another bite of the bar, though he could tell from her lack of response she knew what was on his mind as he shifted his attention to the trees rushing past the passenger side window.

“What did my father say to you?” she asked a short while later.

“Why?”

The major shrugged, tossing the apple core out the window.

“When you came out this morning, you looked...” The space between her eyebrows crinkled. “Not happier, but... Better, I guess.”

Finishing his last bite of his own breakfast, he crammed the wrapper inside his now empty coffee cup, unsure of where she kept her trash on road trips.

“He gave me his condolences,” he dismissed, wiping his fingers clean on a napkin he found in the door. “Talked about how hard it is to lose a child.”

“He’d know.”

Jaime froze, gaping at her.

“My older brother, Galladon, drowned off the coast of Tarth when he was eleven,” she said in a measured tone. “Rip tide.”

God, how horrible that must have been.

“I was about eight years old when it happened. Dad couldn’t handle the grief, so we moved to D.C. that summer.” A wistful smile played with her lips. “Evenfall’s been in my mother’s family for generations, and since Olenna taught my mom while she was at Yale, she got us the key and the deed.”

“Ah, so _that’s_ how you and Margaery became friends.”

“No, actually,” she corrected. “We were assigned as roommates our first semester at GWU, and we went to different schools before that. It was a lucky coincidence we met at all.”

If Jaime knew Olenna, that arrangement had been anything _but_ a coincidence.

“Where’s Tarth?” he wondered aloud. “I’ve never heard of it.”

The small smile instantly reappeared on her face, the interstate humming with activity all around them.

“It’s a port town about twenty minutes outside Savannah.” Her voice was distant, as if she were going there in her mind. “It was founded by my great-great-grandfather. Lots of fishermen’s families and boat builders, a few retired naval officers. Colorful houses, light green grass, bright blue water... There’s an island about two miles out that Dad would take us to on his boat, and Gal called it the Sapphire Isle because the shallows were so blue it seemed as if someone had dumped millions of sapphires into it.”

He didn’t realize he was staring until she frowned at him.

“And your mom?” he posed, clearing his throat. “Where is she?”

“She’s been gone for... Twenty-nine years now?” she contemplated. “I barely knew her. I was only four when she died.”

Jaime’s lips parted slightly, shocked that the gentle man he’d met that morning had lost so much.

“I have no idea how he’s done it,” she mused in earnest. “I would have given up a long time ago.”

“I doubt it,” Jaime blurted with a chortle. “You’re the most pigheaded person I’ve ever met.” That familiar smile tugged on her cheeks. “Besides, he had _you_. I’m sure that helped.”

An exhale escaped her as she adjusted her grip on the steering wheel.

“We all grieve differently, I suppose.”

The memory of his father, locked away in his office for weeks fluttered through his mind, uninvited; Cersei, ten years old and full of fire, throwing priceless china at their nanny as she cowered in the dining room; baby Tyrion, his blissfully innocent coo wedging its way into Jaime’s hollow heart as his tiny hand wrapped itself around his index finger.

“Yes,” he murmured, gazing out the window again. “We do.”

* * *

As soon as he hopped out of the vehicle, the scent of deciduous trees, cow shit, iron-red mud, and rusty steel nearly knocked him over. She’d brought him to a farm outside Fredericksburg, he knew that much, but why had she parked so close to—

“Brienne!” a booming voice echoed from the barn.

The major shut her door and jogged over to the man, throwing her arms around him. He was close to Selwyn’s age, if the wrinkles in his neck were any indication, a few inches shorter than the major, and the growth of his nose had certainly not slowed over the years, his Stetson unable to cover the tip of the enormous structure.

“It’s been months,” the man groused as he kissed her cheek, bracing himself on her shoulders. “They’ve missed ya. Hell, _I’ve_ missed ya!”

The woman grinned.

“It’s been busy,” she declared. “The kids are still settling into Evenfall, and work has taken up—”

“That’s right,” the older man remembered, taking a moment to rub his scruff. “Tywin Lannister, huh? Heard he’s a nasty piece of work.” He cocked an eyebrow at Jaime. “No offense.”

He smirked.

“None taken.”

She tilted her head as the older man grinned, her smile flickering for a mere second as she turned to Jaime.

“Speaking of work, this is—”

“Jaime Lannister,” the laborer stated in his rural Virginian dialect, pulling off his leather glove and holding out his hand as he sheepishly glanced at her. “Your dad texted me earlier this mornin’. Said y’all were comin’ this way.”

Major Tarth sighed, disappearing into the barn as Jaime shook the man’s hand.

“It’s nice to meet you, mister...?”

“Goodwin,” he continued with an easy sort of confidence. “Jacob Goodwin, but you can call me Jake.”

Goodwin tugged him closer, placing an arm around his shoulders as he guided him inside the building.

“So, have you ever been horseback ridin’ before?”

Jaime’s stunned expression answered for him.

“Don’t worry, it's not rocket science,” he laughed, nodding in Major Tarth’s direction. “And she’ll be with ya the whole time.”

That was when Jaime saw her standing next to the most beautiful horse he’d ever seen. It was cloud-cover white, blindingly so, with eyes as calm as hers. He carefully approached, and she smiled, stroking the creature’s nose as she did so.

“You’re afraid of him.”

Suddenly self-conscious, he scoffed.

“I’m not a—”

“You are,” she reiterated. “Here...”

She grabbed what he assumed to be a brush from the shelf and groomed it, starting at the horse’s jaw and running it along his neck a few times, then gave it to Jaime. He exhaled, stepping into the horse’s stall and behind—

“Don’t walk behind him,” she instructed firmly, and he stopped in his tracks. “ _Never_ walk behind a horse if you can help it, especially if it doesn’t know you.”

Of course he shouldn’t. What was he thinking?

_“I always knew you were the stupidest Lannister.”_

Obeying her command, he moved to the side of the horse’s head opposite hers, fairly certain his face was a perfect Lannister crimson.

As he imitated what she had done with the grooming brush, the horse blinked at him, and Jaime saw her lean against the wall as he applied more pressure to the strokes, brushing further down the horse’s neck and onto his chest.

“He likes you.”

Jaime felt something like a spark ignite within him at her words as the horse blinked again.

“What’s his name?” he whispered.

“Honor,” she answered, crossing her arms. “Dad rescued him about ten years ago from an overbreeding situation. He’ll turn nineteen in a few weeks.”

The horse jerked his head back a bit, as if he objected to the mention of his age.

“He’s gorgeous.”

As soon as he’d spoken, the deafening whinnying of an unhappy horse followed by the sound of Goodwin’s bass trying to soothe the creature split the air across from them, and Major Tarth shot him a worried look.

“Stay.”

Jaime did as he was told, brushing the other half of Honor’s neck even as he watched her cautiously approach the stall on the opposite side of the barn.

“She ain’t been the same since Robb died,” Goodwin gasped, removing himself from the anxious horse’s presence and latching the Dutch door. “Ned hadn’t finished trainin’ her yet, either.”

So, Goodwin had worked for the Starks _and_ the Tarths.  

“Got any apple slices?” she inquired, and a grin spread across the old man’s face like a light bulb as he stalked to the other end of the barn.

The major rested her forearms on the door, her head bowed down. Jaime didn’t exactly hear what she was saying, but he heard the dulcet tones she was using, and it wasn’t long until the horse came into view, nudging Major Tarth with its muzzle, requesting her attention. She willingly gave it, lightly pressing her palm flat against its gray cheek.

“Here ya go,” Goodwin proclaimed as he returned, carrying a container of apple slices. “They’re a li’l old—”

“She won’t mind.”

Honor shoved Jaime’s body with his whole head in defiance, disapproving of his inattentive strokes.

“Okay, okay. Geez...”

* * *

She chose to take the temperamental mare for their afternoon excursion at Goodwin’s suggestion, and Jaime reluctantly slipped his sneakered feet into the stirrups of Honor’s saddle, the horse remaining completely unfazed by his weight. Goodwin held Honor steady as Major Tarth swung up onto Robb’s horse with ease, even as the horse shuffled its feet with apprehension.

“What’s her name?” he ventured to ask fifteen minutes down the shady trail.

Halting the silver horse so she could match Honor’s pace, she leaned forward to pet the mare’s neck.

“Grey Wind. Ned rescued her for Robb when he started high school.”

Even in death, Ned Stark’s disgustingly honorable shadow loomed over him.

“Is this how you knew them?” he pried. “The Starks?”

Major Tarth shook her head.

“I knew Catelyn first,” she clarified, her astonishing eyes fading into that far off place he’d witnessed on the way to the farm. “She taught me religious studies my first semester at college, then she asked me if I could babysit the kids during the Christmas holiday. After that... They just sort of—”

“Became family?”

Her small smile was the only answer he needed.

“Must be nice,” he mumbled. “Tyrion’s pretty much all I’ve ever had.”

“But he loves you.”  

Jaime fell silent for a moment, tracing the reins he held with his thumb as Honor lightly rocked him side to side.

“I never would have gotten through med school if it weren’t for him,” he admitted. “Every dyslexia therapist I went to had a problem with my attitude, so he moved in with me to get away from our father and helped me with my homework. He was only thirteen, but he was _so_ fucking smart. It’s as annoying now as it was back then.” She chuckled. “When I—well, after what happened with the Stark boy, Tyrion was the one who took me to rehab. He still has his secretary schedule him around my AA meetings so he can go with me.” Jaime’s throat tightened, and he swallowed hard. “I don’t know why he’s always believed in me. I think he might be the only person who ever has.”

“That’s not true,” she protested. “Those kids thought the world of—”

“They didn’t know about the things I’ve done,” he bit out. “If they had...”

He still couldn’t stomach the image. The way Bran had screamed with fear, his tears streaming down his face as the Ativan did its best to relax him—

“That wasn’t you.”

Jaime looked over to see her staring at him.

“It _was_ me,” he countered, his gut tightening with shame and loathing. “I’m the one who didn’t stop drinking until 2 AM, who dropped the fucking lancet that grazed his—”

“ _He_ doesn’t see it that way,” she interrupted. “As far as Bran’s concerned, it was whatever you were drinking that did it.”

His jaw slackened in disbelief.

“That’s not—”

“I’m not here to listen to you talk about your worst decisions,” she said tersely. “If you’re that upset about his perspective, you should talk to him, not me. My opinion doesn’t matter.”

As she dug her heels into Grey Wind, putting some distance between the two of them, he realized he cared about her opinion a lot more than he wanted to.

* * *

They reached the falls half an hour later, and he understood with perfect clarity why he was wearing swim trunks; here, the river delved into a magnificent, sunlit swimming hole whose water was so clear and peaceful it practically begged to be displaced.

After she’d tied the horses to a nearby tree on the river bank, the apple slice container on the ground in front of them, she immediately took off her shirt, revealing the plain navy swimsuit he’d caught a glimpse of that morning. The halter neckline broadened her shoulders, but reduced her strong waist as a result, almost giving her a woman’s shape. He took off the turquoise polo and sneakers he wore, unzipping the size-too-large pants her father had loaned him, and she turned to the water as she unbuttoned her shorts, yanking them down her legs like an impatient teenager at a community pool. When they got caught on her combat boots, she sat on a rock and untied them.

That was when he saw it.

Roughly half as long as the inner thigh into which it burrowed, the misshapen flesh twisted as wide as two or three fingers. The outside of the scar was puckered, painted a rosy pink from the pressure of the saddle, and the center-most portion was the purest shade of white he’d ever seen.

“Has anyone ever told you it’s rude to stare at people?”

He tore his eyes away from her, more than aware of where they’d been fixed as he stepped out of the pants.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I didn’t mean—”

“You could just _ask_ me about it,” she proposed, opening the larger portion of the backpack and fishing out the sunscreen. “Most people do. Doctors, lifeguards—”

“Yeah, well, most people are assholes.”

Major Tarth regarded him skeptically as she sprayed her bare arms and legs.

“I’d rather someone ask questions than come to the wrong conclusion,” she affirmed, tossing him the sunscreen.

“You’d be surprised by a Lannister’s talent for reading people,” he began cockily, spraying his chest and arms. “You mentioned shrapnel yesterday, so it must have been a bomb. Given that you’re here, and not there, it was a serious injury.” Bending over, he coated his legs and feet. “Probably severed at least part of your femoral artery, if not the entire vessel. Based on your scar, it occurred about a year ago, around the same time Renly died, so you were together when it happened. Perhaps you really did like him, at some point. I mean, I know he was married to Loras, but—”

“You were right,” she cut in, moving to the edge of the rocks.

His smirk became a grin.

“See? A Lannis—”

“Most people _are_ assholes.”

And into the pool she dove, disturbing both the water and his thoughts with her musculature and brutal honesty.

* * *

They kept a comfortable space between them as they swam around the hole, climbing out only to eat the sandwiches she’d packed. Jaime strolled to a rhododendron bush close by, taking the time to mull over what he should say to her as he relieved himself. His brother would come up with a clever comment, but being clever had gotten him into this mess in the first place. Rather than continue that unsuccessful trend, he walked over to the horses, reaching forward to scratch Honor’s jaw.  

“What would you do, hmm?”

Honor bowed his head, and as Jaime massaged the space between the horse’s eyes, he understood.

Tiptoeing around the horses, he saw her long body curled up on the grass atop one towel, another covering her as she napped in the shade, her head resting against the backpack. After everything she’d done for him, for the _kids_ , he couldn’t bring himself to wake her.

He pulled his phone out of the pants he’d worn and checked his notifications, seeing how many times Cersei had tried to call him the night before, and how those calls had abruptly stopped after about 2 AM. They were followed by a single group text from his father to both he and Tyrion:

_The problem has been dealt with. Trial date/time TBD._

Jaime turned off his phone, content to sit on a rock and watch the cleansing river tumble over itself as he recognized in his heart that while he could save her from the world, he could never save her from herself.

* * *

They returned to the stables a few hours later, at which point Grey Wind had settled considerably, much to Goodwin’s delight.

“You’ve always had a way with ‘em,” he proudly boasted, wrapping an arm around the major. “Don’t be a stranger, and bring the kids next time, will ya?”

She nodded, embracing the man as Jaime wandered to the front of the barn, glancing back at Honor. If horses had the ability to wink—

“Mr. Lannister,” Goodwin called, trotting over to him. “It was a pleasure to meet ya. Maybe Brienne will bring ya back sometime. Ol’ Honor sure did take a shine to him, didn’t he?”

Goodwin looked to Major Tarth, who gave them a guarded smile, turning to march through the barn door as Jaime extended his hand, taking Goodwin’s in his right.

“I liked him too,” he concurred. “She’s been pretty busy with the Starks, though, so I don’t know if—”

The older man hauled him in for a slap on the back.

“Then drive out here yourself!” he exclaimed. “It’d be nice to have some company. You could even stay in the guest house, if ya wanted. The wife and I never had kids, and I’m sure she’s tired of cookin’ for only me.”

Jaime was astounded by his generosity, genuinely happy to picture himself in such a situation.

“I’ll definitely think about it, Jake.”

Goodwin patted his shoulder with a grin on his face, striding into Grey Wind’s stall and out of sight.

* * *

It was about 3 PM when they left the farm, and Jaime dreaded the hour and a half it would take them to get back to the house. The remorse he felt finally bubbled over as soon as they crossed the Potomac and parked alongside the wharf, just below Shake Shack. She unbuckled the seat belt, and her fingers went to the door handle—

“Wait.”

Her body stiffened as she released the handle.

“What I said earlier, about your scar...” He took a deep breath. “It was inexcusable, and you didn’t deserve it. I’m sure you were both—”

“Don’t you _dare_ make fun of me.”

“I’m not making fun of you,” he defended, doing his best to keep an even head despite his frustration. “I’m _trying_ to apologize. I was hoping we could...” Shit. What was the word? “I was hoping we could call a truce.”

“You need trust to have a truce,” she muttered.

She wasn’t wrong about that. And yet somehow—

“I trust you.”

Her blue eyes flitted to him for a second, exposing the war that raged on behind them.

“And you expect me to believe that?” she challenged.

“No, I don't... But that doesn't mean it's not true.”

Leaning back in the seat, he stared out the window, the need for a drink creeping up on him for the first time since he'd left the hospital. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her sigh, reclining her upper body against the steering wheel as she wrapped her arms over it.

“I’m sorry about the kids,” she confessed. “Really, I am. And I get that you’re angry, and you’re tired, and you can’t even drink about it like most people would. But you don’t get to take that out on other people, especially when they’re hurting too.” The choked sounds that accompanied her last few words compelled him to look at her and see how the late afternoon sun illuminated the tear tracks on her face. “She was my _patient_. I’m well-acquainted with death, Mr. Lannister. I’ve seen it take people I love, held it in my arms, and you weren't wrong; it almost took me with it once... But none of those experiences prepared me for what happened to that girl.”

He was rendered speechless by her admission.

For nearly the entire day, he’d mourned the loss of his children, trying his damnedest to squelch the memories that threatened him. Not once had he thought to ask her how she was doing. Tyrion was usually the only person who went out of his way to tell Jaime exactly how selfish he was being when it came to seeing only his side of a situation or event; Major Tarth hadn’t told him directly, perhaps, but the effect was the same.

Reaching into the door, he took a napkin and held it out to her. With a huff, she snatched it out of his hand, dabbing under her eyes as she checked her reflection in the rear view mirror.

“We should get dinner,” she reminded him, balling the napkin up in her fist. “I still have to go over Sansa’s chemistry homework.”

He nodded, smiling as he unbuckled himself and opened the passenger door.

“I’ll buy.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, and most of the events of it, were actually the second scene I had planned for this story. Shout-out to Agnes Obel and her amazing song 'Riverside' for getting me into Denmark and Danish culture five years ago, before I knew anything else about it, and for inspiring this (hopefully) transformational chapter. Go give it a listen on Spotify, especially if you liked this! 
> 
> The falls were inspired by Hebron Falls in Western North Carolina, which I regularly accessed through a hiking trail during my time in Boone. Whenever I was feeling low, those falls were where I went. If you vacation in that area, or plan on visiting, hit up the Boone Fork Loop hiking trail and go down the hill to see the falls. Peak beauty, my friends. 
> 
> To those of you who have kudosed, commented, bookmarked, or read this far, you the real MVP! Thank you so much for your love and motivation!


	9. Be Here and Be Holy - Brienne V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reactions to Jaime's presence vary... A bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, y'all! Heads up: I fixed a line in Chapter One to imply that she was no longer living at Evenfall with her father when she came home from the army, but that she moved in with him so he could help her with the Starks. (Plus, extra room!) 
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoy, and thank you for reading!

_When she opened the door, Sansa frowned and rolled over, curling her body away. The lamp on her nightstand was doing its best to brighten the room as Brienne sat on the edge of her bed, trying her hardest to forget how she'd sat on Myrcella’s bed in a similar fashion only an hour earlier._

_“You have every right to be upset with me,” she began, “and I wish I could have talked to you before—”_

_“Before I saw Jaime Lannister standing in the dining room, looking at my homework?” Sansa ground out over her shoulder._

_Brienne took a deep breath, pressing her eyes closed._

_“He almost drank tonight,” she murmured. “He would have, if I hadn’t walked in on him.”_

_“You should have let him.”_

_Shocked by the malice of her comment, Brienne fixed the girl with an affronted stare._

_“And what good would that do?” Brienne argued. “I’m well aware of how much you hate him, but I also know what Joffrey did to you. You’re telling me you don’t think that man should fight as hard as you did? That he doesn’t deserve someone to stand next to him and believe in him the way your father stood by you?”_

_When the teenager said nothing, Brienne gazed out the window at the oak tree, its branches filtering the moon’s light._

_“I don’t hate him,” Sansa grumbled, settling onto her back, “I just don’t understand. He hurt_ Bran _. He threatened Dad at the Met Gala—”_

_“Sansa—”_

_“He shouldn’t be staying here with us when he’s hurt our family,” she concluded._

_Sighing, Brienne moved to cross her legs under her on the bed, giving Sansa her full attention._

_“He needed a safe place to stay,” she explained, fiddling with the hem of her pajama pants while she searched for the best words to use. “Every person in this house knows what that feels like. Besides, I can’t even imagine how much it must hurt to lose a child.” She paused to choke down her tears as Myrcella’s terrified eyes transformed into those of the girl in front of her. “If it had been—”_

_“You mean Tommen’s_ dead _?” Sansa asked, suddenly sitting up in bed._

_Brienne nodded._

_“And Myrcella,” she admitted, the memory of that sweet girl’s smile at lunch invading her mind. The tears were flowing freely now. “It was—I tried, but I couldn’t...”_

_She trailed off as Sansa rose to her knees, wrapping her arms around her neck, offering her a shoulder on which to grieve. Brienne clutched her close as she cried, afraid to let her go, swearing to herself she never would._

_After she'd calmed, she brought a hand to the girl’s head, spreading her fingers across her smooth red hair for tangible proof that they were all safe, all here._

_“I’m so sorry,” Sansa whispered, loosening her grip. “I had no idea.”_

_“It’s okay,” she told her, pulling back. “I’ll be fine, really.”_

_“Is he staying in your room?”_

_She nodded, wiping her cheeks as Sansa pulled the floral comforter back. Taking the hint, Brienne crawled up the bed and nestled in alongside the girl, who reached out and took her hands, snuggling closer to her._

_“You_ are _going to tell Arya and Bran, aren’t you?”_

_“In the morning.”_

_Sansa’s hopeful expression turned skeptical, which surprised her._

_“Don’t you trust me?” Brienne questioned._

_“You know I do,” she defended, “but—”_

_“Everything before the word ‘but’ is horseshit,” Brienne reminded her, a smirk on her lips to match the one growing on the girl’s face._

_“Dad.”_

_They fell into a comfortable stillness, the warmth of Sansa’s bed finally permeating the chill that had been looming around her heart._

_“You should take him to the falls tomorrow while we’re at school,” Sansa suggested quietly. “It could be good. For both of you.”_

_Brienne squeezed her small hands with pride; she was becoming more and more like her mother every day. Her kindness, her strength... Her stubbornness._

_“Of course, he could be gone by the time we wake up,” the teenager mused. “That would solve all our problems.”_

_That was when Brienne bit her bottom lip hard, trying not to grin._

_“What?” Sansa demanded, a smile breaking through._

_“I armed the door alarm.”_

_The young woman’s eyes lit up with mirth as she laughed, covering her nose and mouth with her hands. Brienne happily plummeted over the cliff with her._

* * *

To say dinner that night was a disaster would be an understatement; it was more akin to being in the control room of a nuclear power plant reactor when literally everything was escalating to increasingly unstable and catastrophic levels, but having no idea what buttons to press or levers to ease up or down.

Arya was the nuclear reactor, and Brienne was the engineer without a manual.

Her father, bless him, had done his best to ease Jaime into the conversation, conscious of how uncomfortable the entire situation was, yet Arya persisted in her obstinate lack of speech, throwing Brienne a scowl every now and then that would wither the sturdiest petals spring could offer.

“What did you think of the falls?” Sansa inquired, apparently sensing her sister’s wrath.

Jaime’s eyebrows climbed his forehead as he stole a glance at Brienne beside him. She took a sip of her unsweet tea, ignoring him.

“They’re peaceful,” he said, a hint of confusion sprinkled in his voice. “Good at helping you clear your mind. The horses were a nice touch.”

Sansa met her gaze, barely containing her pleasure even as it pulled on her lips.

“I thought they might be.”

Realizing the entire excursion had been her sister’s idea, Arya gaped around her lemonade straw.

“Oh, god,” she groaned, slamming her cup on the table in disgust. “Not you too.”

“Arya...” Brienne warned.

“This is pathetic!” the teenager declared, glaring at her. “If _you_ aren’t coming up with excuses for him—” She leaned forward so her rage could fall on Selwyn at the head of the table— “And _you_ aren’t trying to insert him into the conversation—” She shoved Sansa, making her drop her chicken sandwich on the table, earning her a gasp as barbecue sauce splashed onto her pretty pink sweater— “Then _you’re_ coming up with ideas to make him feel better! Bran...”

The boy shrugged in response to the pleading look she threw him, swallowing a mouthful of fries.

“At least they’re trying,” Bran chided, sheepishly fixing his eyes on his burger wrapper. “I’d say something to make it easier too, but I think I’d just make it worse.”

Brienne felt more than heard Jaime sigh next to her at the comment, but it was all Arya could take.

“Did you show him the tree?” Arya pried, staring straight at Brienne.

Dread broke through her defenses and into her marrow, the walls of her veins chilled by the implication of her words. She wouldn’t...

“Of course you did. You probably carved your names into it with a pocketknife like Mom and Dad,” the girl mocked, her face stony. The pressure in Brienne’s chest became a scalding, molten beast at the mention of Catelyn. “Or did you dig into it with a car key the way that you and—”

“That’s enough!” Brienne snapped, noticing the way they all flinched. “If you can’t sit here and have a civilized conversation, then—”

“What?” Arya challenged with a sarcastic smile. “You’ll ground me? Send me to my _room?”_

Brienne grit her teeth.

“Yes.”

The smile slowly slipped away into bewilderment.

“You wouldn’t,” the teenager balked.

“I _am_ ,” Brienne reiterated, straightening to her full height in the chair. “I’m going to change the Netflix password and reset all our devices later tonight. You can have it back in a month.”

A collective grumble of protest vibrated around the dining room as Arya turned on her.

“That’s not fair!” she exclaimed. “You can’t do that. You’re not my mother!”

The pain of scorching shrapnel wedged in the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh was nothing compared to the agony of those words as they struck the air around her, not when she remembered the papers on her desk; the papers she hadn’t even told them about yet.

After this argument, she wasn’t sure she ever could.

She stood, unable to look at them. Noiselessly pushing her chair back into its place under the table, she took her half-eaten chicken sandwich and threw it in the bin under the sink, her appetite having been promptly extinguished. The tears had already begun to crack through, spilling onto her cheeks while she walked back through the dining room—

“Brienne...”

Her feet paused slightly at the sound of her name on his tongue, familiar and simultaneously foreign, but rather than endure their eyes, she took measured steps into her room, closing the door behind her and heading straight for the bathroom so they wouldn’t hear her sobs.

* * *

A hot shower had done wonders, washing away the river, the dust from the trail, and her tears, however the exhaustion began to settle deep within her joints, her thoughts decelerating in the way they always did a few hours before she went to bed.

After listening at her door for a moment to see if anyone was in the kitchen, she eventually made her way there for a glass of water. The clock on the wall said 6:46 PM, and the sun had nearly finished setting in the cloudy sky, its orange glow lending the foyer a warm disposition. Soon, the evening temperature would fall with it, and for late September, that meant wearing a sweater on the front porch, a cup of hot tea in her hands.

She put the kettle on to boil, pulling a mug out of the cupboard as she peered at the dining room table; all the dirty plates had been rinsed and placed in the dishwasher, the trash thrown in the bin under the sink, and the surface had been wiped down, shining with pleasure at having been showered with so much affection.

“Feeling better?”

The comfort of her father’s heavy, calloused hands resting on her shoulders relaxed her instantly, and she turned to let him wrap his arms around her.

“For now,” she mumbled into his shoulder.

“She’ll come around,” he reassured her, taking a step back. “Went straight to her room after you left. She was about as upset as you were about what she said.” He smiled, cupping her face with his hands. “Resetting the Netflix password was a great idea. Wish I’d had that option when you were her age.”

Brienne chuckled, moving to the counter to take the whistling kettle off the burner.

“Oh, and you might want to make two more cups if you’re heading out on the porch.”

Her brow furrowed, but her father headed toward the stairs.

“They went out a few minutes ago,” he said over his shoulder. “They’re working through it. You should take them the couch throw, though; Jaime’s only wearing that polo I loaned him.”

Of _course_ he was. She rolled her eyes, grabbing two more mugs from the shelf and pouring the hot water into all three of them.

“Thanks, Dad.”

As his footsteps on the stairs faded, she dropped a bag of chamomile in each one, sweetening Bran’s with some honey, putting a dollop in Jaime’s as well. She approached the front door cautiously so as not to spill the scorching hot mugs that were precariously looped over the fingers of her left hand, the couch throw secure over her shoulder. Hearing their voices through the open window by the swing, she stopped herself as she reached for the knob, listening to their progress.

“...House is Mrs. Bishop’s. She’s nice. Now and then one of her cats gets out, and she’ll go down the street with her cane every day, knocking on everyone’s door until she finds it, or it comes home.”

She smiled at the fondness with which he spoke of their neighbor, a warmth she hadn’t felt since Sansa’s laughter the night before tracing its way to her lips.

“She sounds fascinating,” Jaime concurred. “And what about that house there?”

A pause.

“That’s Mr. Luwin,” Bran stated, his tone too melancholic for an eleven-year-old. “He used to be the director of operations at Georgetown Neighborhood Library. I sit with him sometimes on the weekends, and he reads to me, or he tells me stories. He’s...” The boy faltered. “He got shot in a drive-by five years ago, and now he can’t walk.”

For a long moment, she heard nothing but the chirp of the evening crickets and the whir of cars as they drove by.

“I’m sorry for what I did to you,” Jaime said, his words soft and sincere.

“I know. I remember your face... After.”

A ragged exhale rushed past the man’s lips.

“If it hadn’t happened, you’d have never gotten help,” Bran said with certainty. “It wasn’t _you_. Not the person you are today, anyway.”

God, she loved that kid. Ned would be so proud.

“Besides, it’s not like I was any good with them,” the boy defended, the smile returning to his voice. “I miss climbing trees, but I always had more fun in my normal classes than I did in PE. Now I just focus on my grades instead.”

Jaime cleared his throat a little.

“Any idea what you’ll do with them?”

“Maybe be a psychologist,” Bran thought aloud. “Or a lawyer, like Dad was. Someone who uses their words to make a difference.”

“You remind me of my brother,” Jaime said with a chortle. “He’s smart, like you. He always says that a person’s mind is like a sword, and you have to use books and stories to—”

“Keep it sharp?”

She could practically see Jaime’s grin.

“Exactly.”

“Do you think he’d want to come to dinner tomorrow night?” Bran asked, his excitement palpable. “Sandor is coming, and the Tyrells will be there.”

“I’m sure he’d love to...” Jaime hesitated. “But we’d have to ask Brienne. I don’t know if she’d want me to stay for dinner again. Not after what happened earlier.”

That was her cue.

She inhaled and opened the door, stepping out onto the whitewashed boards and closing it behind her. The chain supporting the swing creaked as Jaime stood, reaching her in one stride to take two of the mugs from her hand, his cold hand bumping against hers as the other offered her his place on the swing. She shook her head, tilting it in Bran’s direction, encouraging him to keep going. There was something different about the smile he gave her when he sat back down, handing the boy his tea.

“What kind do you think it is?” Jaime teased, giving the boy a studious look.

Bran snickered.

“She always makes chamomile at night,” he turned to her, “don’t you?”

All she could do was nod, sitting in the nearby rocking chair and holding out the throw.

“Dad thought you might be cold.”

Jaime did the honors, draping the plush fabric across both their laps while the boy started discussing the books he’d most recently read. She sipped her tea, watching as the anguish of the sixteen long months these two very different people in front of her had separately endured gradually washed away under the steady, easy stream of their conversation, and for the first time in her life, she recognized true forgiveness.  

She really should call Stannis.

* * *

Since the guest room was next to Arya’s, and she wasn’t particularly happy with either of them, Brienne determined that Jaime should stay in her room again, and she would sleep on the couch. He fought her on it at first, but relented when she mentioned it was a school night, and Arya wouldn’t take kindly to seeing him first thing in the morning.

He had already showered and settled into bed with one of her books when she’d knocked, telling him she needed to use her desk to review Sansa’s chemistry homework. The second she sat down, she flipped the adoption papers over so they wouldn’t distract her with the recollection of Arya’s excruciating words.

At last, she was bearing down on the last page of stoichiometric problems and balanced equations, punching numbers into her calculator when her cell phone rang, disturbing her from her work. Peeking at the screen, she saw it was Tywin.

Shit.

“Dr. Lannister,” she answered, her serene timbre belying her apprehension as she spun around to face Jaime, who removed the reading glasses that had been perched on his chiseled nose.

“Major Tarth,” Tywin greeted. “I take it my son is still with you?”

“Yes, he is.”

“Good,” he said simply. “Pycelle finished the autopsy and gave me the preliminary results, if you’d both like to hear them...?”

Her stomach rolled painfully; how could she have forgotten it?  

“Just a moment...”

She rose from the chair to shut the bedroom door, then padded over to the bed, pressing her phone to her shoulder as she sat beside Jaime.

“He’s got Myrcella’s autopsy results.”

He hoisted himself up further against the headboard, a guarded expression hardening his features. When the white comforter slid down his chest, exposing more of the bare, tanned torso she had pointedly ignored at the river, she looked down at her phone and tapped the speakerphone icon, her free hand bracing her against the bed.

“We’re both here.”

Tywin sighed wearily, and the sound of it disconcerted her.

“Her cause of death was massive pulmonary embolism, as I’m sure you both suspected at the time, and the blood tests confirmed Factor V Leiden.”

A clotting factor mutation...? Brienne’s heart seized at the realization the girl had likely never even known she had it. But that still didn’t explain—

“Pycelle also found elevated amounts of ethinyl estradiol in her blood stream. After combing through her medical records, it would appear that her mother put her on birth control a year ago to manage her menstruation pain. The gynecologist that prescribed it was unaware of the mutation. When the force of the explosion destroyed her lower leg, it dislodged a clot that had formed prior to that evening, and it traveled to her lungs.” Tywin paused in his recitation. “There is no situation in which she could have been saved.”

Brienne didn’t notice the tears trailing down her cheeks until she felt the gentle heat of Jaime’s hand folding over her own, his sea-foam eyes glassy.

“Thank you,” he said to Tywin, his gaze never leaving hers. “We’ll tell Dr. Payne.”

She nodded in agreement, moving her hand to wipe her face as she stood—

“I wanted to apologize to you both,” Tywin rushed on. “It’s been four months since I’ve seen or heard from her, but in that time Cersei was planning her attack. Rather than question her silence, I busied myself with work, and I...” The yelp of leather as he sat in his office chair reverberated through the phone. “I feel partly responsible for what happened.”

Her eyes flew to Jaime, the tear tracks on his cheeks shining brighter than she could bear.  

“It seems I’m responsible for a great many things I never considered until last night,” Tywin confessed. “Major Tarth, you’ve given far more than this organization is capable of reciprocating, and debts make me... Uncomfortable. If you...” He took a breath. “If the events of last night have you doubting our arrangement in any way, you are free to break it without fear of repercussion.”

Her lips parted slightly at the implication; he was offering her a way out. No strings attached, no angle.

He was offering her _freedom_.

Everything in her world would be restored to what it was prior to the beginning of her job as Chief of Surgery: The kids would remain hers, Olenna would be glad to pick up where they left off regarding her private practice, she could spend more time with Sandor and Margaery—

And yet, when she saw Jaime wipe his tears away with the heels of his hands, she remembered sleeping in Sansa’s bed, the girl’s laughter piercing her heart far better than any bullet could; the way Bran had eagerly asked her if Tyrion could join them for dinner tomorrow night, rattling on about a book Mr. Luwin had loaned him last week that he was _dying_ to discuss with someone; her father’s proud smile as he learned the true value of Netflix...

Jaime’s willingness to even _try_ confronting his greatest fears.

Suddenly, the idea of going back to her old life paled in comparison to a single day in the life she was currently living, words she had once said as a soldier returning to her: _I will never accept defeat. I will never quit._

_I will never leave a fallen comrade._

“What do you think, major?” Tywin prompted.

She swallowed hard.

“I think I’d prefer to stay where I am.”

In her peripheral vision, she could tell Jaime was staring at her in disbelief, so she sat at the desk, putting her back to him. The time it took Tywin to respond indicated he was just as shocked.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Tywin conceded. “I’ll see you both on Saturday, then. Rest well.”

“Thank you, sir.”

As soon as they hung up, Brienne ran a hand through her hair, unable to comprehend the conversation that had taken place, or the way Jaime Lannister, the fading grey lion with more problems and muscles than she had ever been equipped to handle, climbed out of bed and crossed the distance between them to stand beside her in nothing but another pair of her pajama pants. She occupied herself by perusing the last few problems on Sansa’s homework.

“Brienne...?”

Her eyes found his, and he opened his mouth to say something, but closed it shortly after, smiling instead.

“Want to change the Netflix password?” he proposed. “It’s almost nine o’clock, but we could still watch something.”

“I don’t have a—”

“You have a computer,” he countered, nodding in the direction of the fully-charged MacBook Pro sitting on her desk. “That’s more than enough screen for two people.”

She couldn’t disagree with that, so she unplugged it from its charger and handed it over.

“I’ve only got three problems left to check...”

He hopped back into bed, opening the computer and replacing his reading glasses as he set everything up for them.

* * *

She silenced the alarm on her phone at 6:30 AM, realizing very quickly that she had fallen asleep on her own bed, not on the couch as she’d intended, and she was lying atop the covers rather than beneath them. The extra blanket that she kept in the closet had mysteriously unfolded itself across her body, and when she glimpsed her desk, she saw her laptop had been placed there to charge, though she couldn’t remember them actually finishing the film.

A growl came from behind her following the alarm, and she rolled over to face him, his body separated from hers by her comforter. He stretched his arms above his head in a manner befitting a cat and nestled back into the warmth of her bedding, looking over at her.

“Sorry I didn’t wake you,” he murmured. “You fell asleep about halfway through.”

The sound of dishes shifting around in the kitchen made her gut clench as she immediately sat up; if Arya saw that Brienne had slept in her room, in her own _bed,_ with Jaime Lannister, she would hold a grudge that put even Catelyn to shame.  

“I’d better get out there.”

Jaime nodded and closed his eyes, his breathing evening out again by the time she opened the door.

Her father poked his head around the doorway of the kitchen to see her emerge, and she could only imagine what he was thinking as she shut the door behind her, her long hair tousled and unbrushed, her body sheathed in the same sweater and leggings from the previous evening.

She was entirely stunned to see him give her a knowing smile, saying nothing at all as the girls trudged down the stairs, Bran’s wheelchair in tow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was inspired by 'Colourway' by Novo Amor, which is probably my favorite song by that young man. I could wrap myself in his voice and die a happy single woman. 
> 
> Since this takes place in the present day, and there is no Three-Eyed Raven, I couldn't help but explore what Bran would be like. *This* kid, who knows it was more complex than dropping a surgical instrument, comes to the same conclusion as show!Bran: If it hadn't happened, Jaime would be the same person. He *knows* Jaime regrets his choice to drink the night before, and I like to think that show!Bran and Tyrion would have gotten along really well. 
> 
> Fun fact: The words Brienne recalls from her days as a soldier are actually part of the Soldier's Creed for the US Army.
> 
> About half of Chapter Ten is already written. Should be up by Tuesday! Thank you for your kudos, comments, and bookmarks, but especially thank you for your time. I appreciate it more than you know. (*shuffle-steps offstage*)


	10. It Might Be Too Sharp - Brienne VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne struggles with what she does not know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this was *way* longer than I intended for it to be, but it's the longest chapter you should see for a little while, at least. 
> 
> Meant to get it up on Tuesday, but I finally finished 'Stranger Things' S3 with my mom on Monday, and was properly knackered by how one season of 'Stranger Things' and the *only* season of 'Chernobyl' have managed to repair my D&D-ridden heart. Apologies. 
> 
> Anywho, hope you enjoy!

Once she’d dropped the children off at school, Selwyn sent Jaime with her to the supermarket to get all the supplies they’d need to feed ten people; it was the most agitating and satisfying shopping experience she’d ever had. They couldn’t agree on _anything_ , much to her dismay. It took them circling the market four times, gratuitous amounts of bickering about cuts of meat and who was paying, and enduring the worst puns she’d ever heard about particular food items (even if the one about a nosy pepper getting jalapeño business actually _was_ kind of clever) before they made it to the checkout line. The cashier, a young woman in her mid-twenties or so, smiled playfully at Jaime, who stood in front of her waiting with his card. When she turned her smile to Brienne, however, it stumbled off her face and shattered on the floor.

Brienne simply ignored it, as she usually would, holding her car keys out to Jaime so he could use her customer discount tag while she finished putting their bags in the cart. After a moment, when he still hadn’t taken them from her, she glanced at him, noting the way he was scowling at the cashier as he jammed his card into the machine.

“You do sell rubber cement here, don’t you?” he cajoled the girl, whose expression contorted to one of confusion.

“I believe so, sir. Aisle nine...?”

The reader prompted him to punch a few buttons, and he removed his card, slipping it back into his wallet.

“That’s good,” he mused. “You should buy some when you get off work. Might help your smile stay on your face next time.”

Brienne’s neck and shoulders were still several shades of scarlet deep when they climbed in the SUV, the backseat loaded to the brim with over two hundred dollars-worth of groceries.

* * *

After hours of food preparation, Jaime stepped out to call Tyrion and invite him to dinner while Brienne picked the kids up from school. Arya wasn’t speaking to her unless spoken to, but at least she was speaking.

The meal went off without a hitch; Jaime engaged in a lively conversation with Olenna, Tyrion just happened to have already read the book Bran was so obsessed with, and Arya excused herself early so she and Sandor could practice some boxing moves, running upstairs to grab her gloves and bee-lining for the backyard.

“I’m sorry I didn’t text you about my date with Ros yesterday,” Margaery told her later, helping her clean and sweep the dining room. “I assumed after Wednesday night, you’d be... Occupied.”

Brienne’s eyes were drawn to Jaime as he took the dirty utensils from Selwyn’s hands and put them in the dishwasher, his dark blonde hair falling across his cheek as he laughed at something her father said.

“I was.”

When Margaery saw what she was looking at, she elbowed her.

“We have _got_ to get lunch sometime next week,” she purred. “I want to know all the details.”

The thought of telling Margaery everything, from the mutual respect she’d found with Jaime to how well the kids were progressing in their grief, sent her heart through the roof and into the skies far above them.

“I’d like that.”

* * *

The Tyrells were the first to leave, Olenna having had her fill of food and informing them that she’d like to be in her own bed at home by the time she fell into a coma, thank you very much. Margaery hugged Sansa goodbye, then Brienne, who said she’d text her a time and day for lunch during the weekend.

“Can you describe the date in one word?” she whispered. “Something to tide me over?”

Margaery, her secretly mischievous, ever-composed friend, actually _blushed_.

“I don’t know... It was... Pink, I guess.”

Brienne’s eyes widened, and Margaery swatted her arm.

“She was wearing a pink romper!” she defended with a giggle. “It’s all I could think of.”

“It must have been a beautiful romper for it to have been so memorable,” Brienne said with a smile.

Her friend shrugged, biting her bottom lip.

“It was nice, but _she_ made it beautiful.”

The way she lit up like a Christmas tree when she talked about Ros compelled Brienne to take her hand.

“I’m happy for you,” she affirmed. “Really.”

Margaery squeezed her fingers, waving her grandmother off when she impatiently honked the horn. Sandor was the next to leave, grumbling about how he wished there had been more chicken.

“Nothing’s stopping you from bringing your own, you know.”

“Fuck that,” he muttered. “We both know it’s the only thing I’d eat. No need to make a damn fool of myself. Besides, too much meat doesn’t sit well when you’re trying to teach a runt how to fight.”

Sandor nodded over her shoulder, and she turned to see Arya practicing some punches and kicks in the kitchen, accidentally knocking a magnet off the refrigerator.

“She told me what happened,” Sandor admitted, placing his hands on her shoulders, drawing her gaze away from the girl. “You’re so goddamn alike, Bri. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she really was your kid.” Brienne chuckled, the truth in his words mollifying her spirit. “I’ve got fuck-all experience with being a parent, but from what I know about _you_ , you’ve just got to give her time.”

He wrapped an arm around her, drawing her into the shore of his shoulders and anchoring her there for several moments until he patted her back, pulling away.

“So, Friday?”

“ _Every_ Friday,” she reiterated. “Halloween too.”

He fixed his stare above her head and huffed as if the idea alone was torture. She grinned, pushing against his shoulder.

“Get lost.”

“But not where I don’t have cell signal, right?”

She lifted her foot to kick him, but he was already trotting down the steps out of range.

The only remaining guest was Tyrion, who was seated on the couch beside Bran as they fervently talked about the symbolism of a particular event in The Kite Runner, a book she’d always wanted to read herself. She listened in on their conversation from the foyer, which involved the protagonist’s initial quest to redeem himself for ‘killing’ his mother at birth, and how every decision thereafter could be directly attributed to the guilt he felt as a child. Of _course_ Tyrion had read it.

“We should probably get going too,” Jaime’s voice said behind her.

She spun around to see him standing there, the most relaxed she’d seen him in a few days.

“Are you sure?” she asked, trying not to betray her worry at the idea of him going home, his greatest enemy likely waiting to pounce on him from a cupboard or a shelf.

He nodded.

“Brienne...” His tone had changed. “I want you to know how much I appreciate all of this. What you’ve done... It’s not easy for people to look at me and see something other than my worst choices.”

Why was her pulse accelerating?

“It’s not easy,” she agreed, “but that doesn’t mean it’s not worth trying.”

His lips parted faintly, his sea-green eyes boring into hers in a way that briefly made her think she might not be the only one seeing something else.

A throat cleared nearby, and they turned to see Tyrion standing there, a smirk on his face.

“Perhaps we could join you again next Friday,” he suggested. “It’s nice to see a family get together and enjoy each other’s company instead of verbally lunging at one another across the table.”

She smiled, peeking over her shoulder to see Bran sitting on the couch, a different book lying open in his lap.

“I’m sure Bran would love it, but I’d have to ask the girls—”

“Just let us know,” Tyrion pacified. “I brought him one of my books, and he has my cell number, so if it’s a no, he can call me.”

“Speaking of which, we still need to call Dr. Payne,” Jaime reminded her.

Shit. _That_ certainly wasn’t going to be an easy conversation.

“Bri?” Sansa’s voice reverberated from the top of the stairs. All eyes were on her as she came down, stopping about halfway. She was dressed in her Harry Potter-themed pajamas, much to Brienne’s amusement. “I can’t find Arya.”

Her delight immediately tumbled into fear, and Tyrion must have sensed it, taking her hand and lightly pressing his thumb into her palm while he opened the front door.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely. “For everything.”

He released her hand, striding across the threshold a few inches taller than when he'd entered. Jaime's forehead furrowed in consternation as he stepped forward, his hands buried deep in the pockets of yet another pair of her father’s pants.

“Call me and tell me what Dr. Payne says, okay?”

An arm wrapped around her waist, and Brienne turned to see Sansa standing next to her on the first step.

“I’m sorry about Myrcella and Tommen,” she said gently, her gaze flickering to Jaime. “They were...” The teenager inhaled. “They were only ever kind to us.”

Brienne draped her arm around Sansa’s shoulders, tugging the girl close even as she held out a hand to Jaime, who took it with only slight hesitation.

“Maybe we can have you over again sometime,” Sansa continued. “Or we could all go to the falls...?”

Jaime smiled, releasing her hand as he met Brienne’s eyes.

“Maybe.”

She tried to smile back at him, and with a bow of his head, he was gone. Rather than tell Sansa how proud she was, she pulled her into a tight hug, resting her cheek against the girl’s head.

“We should find your sister.”

Sansa nodded and moved away, heading for the kitchen when Brienne saw the door to her room was open. What on earth—

“She went in a few minutes ago,” Bran’s said from the couch. “I told her not to, but she ignored me.”

Brienne sighed, unsurprised by the boy’s comment, quietly crossing the distance to her bedroom on the hardwood floor and pushing her door open. The sweat-soaked teenager whirled around at the creaking hinges, the stack of adoption papers clutched in her hands, tears streaming down her face.

_“You’re not my mother!”_

For a long moment, neither of them said anything, more than aware of the words she'd thrown the day before.

“I’m sorry,” Arya blurted. “I didn’t—I wasn’t thinking.” Her bottom lip quivered. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t know.”

The girl put the papers back on the desk, attempting to wipe her tears away as Brienne bridged the distance between them. Arya met her halfway and threw her arms around her waist, burying her face in her chest, and Brienne’s arms intuitively held the girl against her as she sobbed. 

“I miss him so much,” she breathed, sniffling into her sweater. “I know it’s selfish, and I should be missing Mom too... And Rickon, and Robb. But I miss Dad most. And now that Jon’s deployed... It feels like no one understands me anymore.”

“Sandor understands you,” said a voice from behind them. They separated to see Sansa leaning against the doorway, smiling at her sister. “I’m _trying_ to.”

Arya chortled a little through her tears, looking up at Brienne.

“How long have you had them?” she questioned. “The adoption papers?”

Sansa gasped, her eyes going wide.

“You mean...?”

Brienne nodded, glancing at the desk as Sansa brushed by them, picking up the packet of documents and examining it.

“Margaery brought them to me Wednesday,” she explained. “I was going to tell you when I got home—”

“Tell us what?” Bran called from the living room.

The girls grinned at one another, running out of the room and crashing onto the couch beside their brother, carelessly removing the paperclip and tossing it onto the coffee table. They were about halfway through the papers, Tyrion’s book entirely forgotten, when Brienne moved away from where she watched them at her door, sitting on the arm of the couch.

“I know it hasn’t been very long, and it’s a stretch that you’d even say yes, but...” She pressed her eyes shut. “As of now, I’m only your legal guardian. If something happened to me, you wouldn’t be able to stay with Dad.”

When she opened her eyes, it was to see faces overwrought with confusion and concern.

“Why not?” Bran accused. “Why would they—”

“Because he’s not family,” Sansa realized aloud. “Not legally, anyway.”

The kids became silent, staring at the documents in Sansa’s hands as if they suddenly weighed much more than the trees from which they’d been crafted.

“It’s not a decision you have to make now,” Brienne said evenly, rising to stand in front of them, “and you don’t _have_ to say yes. You can say no and I’ll understand, really; no one will ever be able to replace your parents, and I’m not trying to. But I wanted you to at least have the option of a home you can always come back to, no matter what.”

Bran smiled up at Sansa, who brushed away a few tears that had managed to escape.

“I’d like to stay here,” Bran declared, “wouldn’t you?”

The teenager nodded in confirmation, putting an arm around her brother and pulling him into her. She held out the papers to her sister.

“Arya?”

The girl wiped her red face before taking the documents from her sister’s hand and considering them for a moment.

“I’ll have to think about it.”

Brienne felt something glimmer deep within her that dangerously resembled hope.

“That’s okay,” she told her. “Take all the time you need. I want you to be sure.”

Arya gave her a half-hearted smile, putting the papers back on the coffee table and standing up.

“I should take a shower,” she murmured, heading for the stairs.

“Can we finally watch ‘Coco’ tonight?” Bran pleaded, his excitement barely contained. “With _cocoa?”_

Sansa rolled her eyes, jokingly pushing her brother away from her and climbing off the cushions.

“You’re _such_ a loser,” she said with a smirk, walking into the kitchen and washing her hands. “You know we can’t watch anything for—”

“I think what Bran’s trying to say is I never said you couldn’t watch something with _me,”_ Brienne amended, winking at the boy. “And he’s right.”

Sansa’s mouth formed a perfect ‘O’ of disbelief that slipped into a grin as she grabbed the kettle and filled it with water. Brienne went into the kitchen and pulled down some mugs and cocoa packets from the cabinet, peeking under it to see Arya grinning at them from the second step.

“I’ll shower fast,” she announced, shooting up the stairs faster than a loosed arrow.

As she searched the pantry for the bag of marshmallows she’d bought last week, Brienne tried to tamper down the joy that had forged its way into her gut, filling her with twisty little caterpillars; god forbid they transform into butterflies before their time. 

* * *

It was around 8:45 PM when she called Dr. Payne, relaying the results Dr. Lannister had given them the previous night as she sat on her bed. The young man was obviously relieved, and thanked her for taking the time to call him.  

“Sounds like he’s doing better,” Jaime said when she was through recounting their conversation. “I was worried about him.”

“Me too,” she admitted, holding the phone closer to her ear. “And Tyrion?”

Jaime’s breath stuttered through the mouthpiece.

“He’s been better. Our father apparently called to make funeral arrangements yesterday, so Ty’s having to think about it a lot more than I’ve had to the last two days.”

Pressing the phone against her ear with her shoulder, she threw back her comforter and clambered into bed; it was right after nine o’clock.

“I still can’t believe you made Tywin Lannister apologize,” he marveled.

She chuckled.

“I’m sure it’s not that remarkable.”

“Let me rephrase.” She could almost see him beaming through the phone at her as she yanked her bedding over body. “You stood there, behind _his_ desk, in _his_ office, and verbally beat the _shit_ out of him. _Tywin Lannister_. In all my life, I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone talk to him that way, much less heard him admit he was responsible for something. He respects you, Brienne.”

Unable to form the words, she said nothing.

“And the fact that you chose to stay...” He trailed off. “It won’t go unnoticed, by him...” She could practically feel him exhale against her ear, such was the force of it. “... Or by me.”

It was her turn to sigh.

“Would you believe me if I said it was an easy choice?”

The stillness that followed her comment left her wondering if their connection had failed.

“No,” he answered at last, “but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”

The echo of what he’d said to her last night in the car, after he’d said he trusted her, left her smiling.

“Do you want to finish that movie we started last night?” he asked, clearing his throat. “It’s still early. I can pull it up on my computer, and you could—”

“Sure,” she said, jumping back out of bed to unplug her laptop. “Hang on...”

“Not going to fall asleep on me this time, are you?”

“Will you wake me up if I do?” she countered.

The vibration of his chortle through the earpiece gave her a chill, so she piled her pillows behind her, tugged her comforter up, and through some trial and error, they matched their Netflix accounts to where they’d stopped during ‘A League of Their Own’ _._ They laughed at the funnier moments together, and Brienne explained how much the girls had loved this movie when they were younger, because they always fought the way Kit and Dottie did.

But when Bob came home injured from the war, and Dottie was over-the-moon to see him, she fell silent, the ache in her chest having lessened only slightly over the last year. Wiping away her treasonous tears, she sniffed, hoping Jaime wouldn’t make some snide remark about it. Astonishingly, if he heard her, he didn’t say anything.

She stayed quiet for the rest of the film; by the end of it, _he_ was the one sniffling.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he groused, blowing his nose. “There’s no crying in baseball.”

Her cackle reverberated through the room as she closed her laptop, leaning over to place it on her nightstand. The clock said 10:21 PM, and if she went to sleep now—

“Brienne...?”

She frowned at the tentative tone he’d used.

“The funeral’s on Sunday at noon, and I know we both have the day off, but... Do you think that you—”  

“I’ll be there,” she confirmed, completing his thought for him.

A  _whoosh_ of breath on the other end of the line was so clear he might as well have been lying beside her.

“The kids can come too, if they want,” he added after a second. “They were closer to family than Joffrey ever was.”

“I’ll let them know,” she conceded, focusing on a spot on the ceiling. “I’m sure they’d like to be there.”

His ‘hmm’ of affirmation was all she needed to recognize his exhaustion, and she could hear the rustle of fabric as he undoubtedly crawled beneath his sheets the way he’d—

“This bed is shit compared to yours,” he complained. “It’s so plush it feels like it’s going to eat me in my sleep.”

She closed her eyes, too tired to laugh anymore, but a smile easily flirted with her lips.

“I’ll see you in the morning, Mr. Lannister.”

The _click_ of his lamp going out was unmistakable, so she grabbed her phone charger and plugged it into the base of her phone.

“Goodnight, Brienne.”

Within a minute of hanging up, she fell into the best sleep she’d had all week.  

* * *

Their first day back at work, there were no e-mails, pages, or unexpected visits from Tywin, and the tension in Jaime’s shoulders had obviously lessened. Shae was assigned to work with them on the two scheduled surgeries, and even if she still bore traces of grief in the dark circles under her eyes, she was glad to see Brienne, throwing her arms around her the moment she saw her.

“How are you feeling?” the smaller woman inquired.

“Better. You?”

The nurse simply nodded, turning to the sink and starting the scrub-in process.

During the procedure, Jaime actually cracked a joke here and there to lighten the mood, which worked pretty well. No one could outdo Gilly, however, who revealed that she was five weeks pregnant as they finished their final procedure for the morning. Good thing, too; Shae dropped an entire tray of surgical instruments in her hurry to hug the woman, nearly knocking over Dr. Payne in the process.

The three of them made their rounds following lunch in her office, and after the first few visits, Jaime let Dr. Payne try his hand with the family members. He stumbled at first, unsure of what words to use, and his initial inadequacy frustrated Brienne (and the families); how had he managed four years of surgical residency without _any_ patient family contact? By the end of the shift, though, he was in the process of establishing his own template of phrases that worked for everyone, and she smiled at Jaime from across the room, going out of her way to praise Dr. Payne as they headed to another floor.

“Begging your pardon, major,” he cut in, his Scottish brogue rattling the air of the elevator, “but most people call me Pod, or Podrick, at least. I mean, I appreciate the compliment, I do... It’s just Dr. Payne isn’t something I’m quite used to yet. Not from coworkers, anyway.”

And so, as he requested, Dr. Payne became Podrick, much to Jaime’s befuddling chagrin.

“Let me get this straight,” he contemplated as they locked her office, heading for the parking deck. “You’ll call him Podrick because he’s asked you to, but you’ll only ever call me Mr. Lannister.”

Her feet stopped her where she stood as other people in mint green scrubs steadily flowed around them.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean last night, before we hung up, you still called me Mr. Lannister. After everything that—”  

“It’s a formality,” she elaborated. “I wouldn’t want _you_ to call me by my name at work, especially in front of our peers, so I don’t call you by your name. It implies familiarity, and I don’t think your father would—”

“We weren’t at work.”

God, was he _sulking?_

“Fine,” she yielded, rolling her eyes in exasperation. “I’ll call you Jaime when we’re not working.”

He gave her a faint smile, which she assumed meant it was enough for now. They continued down the hall, crossing the breezeway and into the garage.

“I told Shae she’s welcome to come tomorrow,” he confessed as they climbed the stairs. “To the funeral.”

Brienne nodded.

“She can sit with us.”

“And you don’t have to wear black,” he pressed on, stepping out of the stairwell and onto the fourth level. “Blue would be good.”

“Blue...?” she wondered aloud, but he was already halfway to a black Lexus, its unlocking _beep-beep_ drowning her out.

* * *

It was as sunny and bright as the children whom they were laying to rest the next day. Tyrion and Tywin had decided that the ceremony should be a private one, without the spectacle of live television; Robert’s funeral would have neither of those luxuries, so the children were to be buried beside their grandmother in the family plot outside the city.

Jaime and Tyrion stood on Tywin’s left, hands linked together as Myrcella and Tommen’s ashes were lowered into the grave they would share. Brienne stood across from them, her left hand in Shae’s, her right arm around Sansa, who delicately swiped the Kleenex she’d been given along the tops of her cheeks, nestling her head into her shoulder. Bran had wrapped an arm around Arya’s waist, and she leaned over, tugging him close and waging war with her own tears.

As the depth of the hole consumed the urns, Brienne couldn’t forget that first meeting with Tywin, and how he’d admitted to some involvement in the car collision that killed Ned and Catelyn; how Robb and Rickon weren’t meant to be there. He lifted his chin to acknowledge her presence, bowing his head in gratitude as the photographers did their duty for the press. His emerald eyes traveled further to study the last of the Starks, and she could have sworn she saw remorse swirling there.

Perhaps he believed this was the world’s way of evening out the circumstances he’d created.

Later, as she lifted Bran so he could grab the front passenger seat and hoist himself over, she heard a pair of footsteps stop on the pavement directly behind her.

“Here.”

Turning around, she saw Jaime had folded the wheelchair, holding it out to her. She took it, slipping it behind the last row of seats.

“I brought these back too,” he said sheepishly, handing her the pants he’d worn home Friday night. “I thought your dad might miss them. They’re clean.”

Wordlessly, Sansa leaned over and took them, dropping them on her lap with a smirk and closing the back passenger door. Brienne felt warmth flood her cheeks as Jaime examined the navy pant suit she’d worn.

“You wore blue,” he observed.

Self-conscious of the way he was staring at her, she crossed her arms, tilting her head forward in defiance.

“You told me to...!”

“I _suggested_ it,” he clarified with a smile. “Do you really think I’m so stupid that I’d try telling _you_ what to do?”

Her shoulders fell a little; had she ever made him feel like...?

“I don’t think you’re stupid at all.”

His smile changed into something more pliable then, his sea-foam eyes settling the way the Atlantic did off the coast of Tarth after a storm moved inland.

She averted her own gaze to peer over his shoulder, and she could only guess at how her facial muscles responded to the sight of Shae and Tyrion, giggling and conversing with one another by Jaime’s sedan.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, noting the change in her demeanor.

When she couldn’t formulate the words, he spun around to see it for himself as Shae handed his brother her phone for what was likely his number.

“Now _that_ was something I hadn’t counted on,” he mused. “If the kids say yes, you might have eleven people to feed at Friday night dinner soon.”

“Twelve, if Margaery and Ros keep seeing each other,” she added. “I’ll have to buy another pair of dining room chairs.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her.

“No.” The smile started to break his cheeks into lines. “You are _not_ going furniture shopping with me. We almost killed each other at the _grocery_ store on Friday, so unless you want me to shove your head in a model dishwasher—”

“Oh, please,” he scoffed. “As if they’d have one big enough.”

A laugh fought its way out of her mouth; an ugly, inappropriate thing to her ears, especially given their surroundings, but he only grinned.

“Are we becoming friends?” he posed with mock disbelief.

The laugh faded as she considered the gravity of his statement: Was that what this was to her? She strained to remember how she’d felt Friday night, with Margaery and Sandor. The comfort, the simplicity... The trust.

The memory of how things had ended with Hyle pumped acid through her veins, scorching her as hot as a flaming blade.

“I don’t know.”

The smile on Jaime’s face dissipated, and he swallowed hard, stepping away from her. _For fuck’s sake—_

“Wait.”

When he didn’t stop moving, she grabbed his arm and spun him around.

“Damn it, listen to me...!” His features froze in shock. “Trust doesn’t come easily to me, all right? You have to understand that. I can’t...” As she inhaled, she released his arm. “I need time.”

Jaime blinked, taking her in as if he’d never seen her before.

“Then you have it.”

Her mind went blank at how effortless his response was, so she nodded in gratitude.

“I’ll see you Tuesday,” he told her, waving off his brother who was calling his name.

“Tuesday.”

And with that, he jogged away, leaving her to wonder what the hell had just happened.

* * *

The week passed by quickly, with Bran’s new science project and preparation for Arya’s swim meet taking up a majority of her free time, and at work, things progressed smoothly, especially now that Podrick was finding his own rhythm within their daily routine. Thursday night, after a victorious night for Arya and her team, Brienne called Jaime when she went to bed to let him know that, for Bran’s happiness, Arya had agreed to dinner with him and his brother the following night.

“You sure you don’t need help picking out two more chairs?” he pestered.

She sighed, her irritation failing to stop the smile that crept onto her face.

* * *

It had started like any other Monday, except for the threat of turning 34 at the end of the week. The kids hadn’t stopped asking her what she’d like as a birthday present, even though she had already assured them the only thing she wanted was a nice dinner on Friday and _maybe_ a cake.

So, of course the moment Tywin paged them all to the containment floor to tell them a D.C. resident had been diagnosed with Marburg Hemorrhagic Virus after disembarking from a flight returning from the Democratic Republic of Congo, she was blindsided.

“Major Tarth,” Tywin addressed her, “it would seem that, around the same time he came into contact with the virus, he managed to fracture his distal tibia and fibula. They did their best at the time, but the bones should be surgically reset immediately to prevent unnecessary blood loss while the virus is still in its earliest stages. I will personally see to it that your other surgeries are rescheduled. You’re aware of biosafety level 4 procedures, correct?”

“Yes, but I—”

“Good. We’ll get you and your team properly suited.”

And within the hour, she was standing outside the containment room, an already-suited Shae zipping her up.

“I’m staying out here,” Jaime replied when she asked why he wasn’t donning a suit. “There aren’t enough of them, and I don’t want you to be in there any longer than you have to be because of me. Podrick should go.”

Despite how well they worked together as a team, she knew he was right; Pod was an orthopedic surgical resident, and while Jaime was more than capable, he still struggled with the difference between his realm of surgery and her own. She nodded in agreement.

The patient, an outdoor adventurer by the name of Calvin Drogo, had apparently been spelunking in some locally-famous caves when a fruit bat had bitten him, at which point he fell about fifty feet. Once he’d been anesthetized and his ankle prepared, she saw the fracture _was_ a serious one, and he should have undergone surgery as soon as it happened. The likelihood of finding a hospital capable of such a procedure within a hundred miles of where he’d fallen, however, was highly unlikely.

Three hours later, they had fixed the transverse screws through his fibula and into his tibia at last, and as Pod went to knot the fibers he’d used to close the incision, his final task, the heart monitor spiked.

Without any warning, the patient brought the hood of Pod’s suit down on his knee _hard_ , splitting the plastic and sending him reeling backwards. Instinctively, Brienne jumped on the patient, holding the man down while he screamed and fought against her, her eyes flying to Baelish. The anesthesiologist simply raised his hands in innocence, staring down at the man in revulsion as Pod leapt up and grabbed one of the fists that was pounding against her chest, blood from the operation smearing from her gloves onto the patient’s gown as she held him down—

Using his free hand, the patient managed to grab one of the sharper instruments and penetrate her hood, narrowly missing her face.

“Baelish...” she struggled to say as she wrenched the man’s wrist away from her.

The physician upped the rate of the anesthesia, but it only worsened Drogo's condition. He managed to bring the entire tray of instruments down on her head this time, the blood that had collected on it trickling down the front of her hood and her suit—

Apparently, the monitor had called for an emergency injection of Valium, because someone else ran into the room and shoved a syringe into his arm. The patient grabbed the man in protest, but it was too late; he almost instantaneously calmed, and Brienne turned to thank the nurse.

Except it wasn’t a nurse; it was Jaime, his bare arm and mint green scrubs now painted with the contaminated, bloody handprints of their patient.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events of this chapter (and the following one) were inspired by 'Elastic Heart' by Sia. And sea_spirit, I'm sure you noticed the movie reference. Your fic is what encouraged me to start posting my own fic, so thank you! If any of you haven't read 'With All Your Faults' yet, you need to get your butts over there and hit it up. The best fic I've ever read... And we won't talk about how long I've been reading fic. (*winks*)
> 
> As always, kudos, comments, and bookmarks are much appreciated! If you're enjoying it and feel like sharing it with others, head on over to https://ofaclassicalmind.tumblr.com/ and click 'reblog' on the post for this chapter. (*enthusiastic interpretive dance*) Thanks for reading, everybody!
> 
> Healthcare Blip:  
> \- Marburg Hemorrhagic Virus is a deadly disease (actually a relative of Ebola, fatality rate 20-90%), and you actually *could* get it from spelunking in the wrong bat-cave in Central Africa. Weird, yeah?  
> \- Biosafety Level 4 procedures are those involving the containment and treatment of such deadly and contagious diseases. If you're into stuff like that, type BSL 4 into Google and putz around. Interesting stuff, my friends.  
> \- Their BSL 4 suits are based on this one: https://www.honeywellsafety.com/Products/Protective_Clothing/BSL_4.aspx?site=/europe#  
> \- My best friend suffered a terrible ankle injury like the one Drogo did, so I may have used her for source material. She's aware and knows I love her. (Thanks, Bee! *enthusiastically waves from stage*)


	11. Still Fighting for Peace - Jaime V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime's decision is scrutinized... With surprising results.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all! As usual, thank you *so much* for your kind words. We're over 1/4 of our way through the story now, so I hope you enjoy this chapter!

He had watched the video feed alongside the nurse monitor throughout the entire procedure, steadily secreting sweat that chilled him so much he was forced to hug himself. The way he constantly itched for a drink to calm his nerves and warm his stomach only made him concentrate further on how far Brienne and the team had progressed, and he released a breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding as soon as Pod began stitching the incision shut.

It was over.

Of course, the moment he stood to stretch his legs and turned his back to the screen was when Drogo woke and began to assault the team, their shouts of alarm echoing through the speakers on the desk and into the air around him.

Jaime spun around to see Pod doing his best to restrain one of the man’s arms, the hood of his suit torn so much that the positive pressure within it wouldn’t protect him should the patient attempt to attack him again. Shae was standing back in shock beside Baelish, and Brienne was doing her best to keep the patient from reaching across and exposing Pod to the contaminated blood he’d now smeared onto his hands. God, she was stronger than—

That was when the patient grabbed the lancet from the tray and punctured her hood, and Jaime’s mind was instantly overcome with flashes of smiling children, late-night phone conversations, uninhibited laughter, and sleepy sapphire eyes.

The monitor called for security, but Jaime knew it would be a good twenty minutes before help could walk through those doors. He darted to the med room, sanitizing his hands as he went, and grabbed a syringe from the cabinet, shoving his finger against the print-reader on the Pyxis and opening the sedatives drawer. There was no time for gloves, so he worked rapidly, taking one of the methohexital sodium vials and drawing what he’d require for such a heavy patient into the syringe.

Without hesitation, he entered the pressurized gown room and bolted into the containment unit, ignoring the shouts of the nurses behind him as he sprinted down the hall to the patient’s suite. He wrenched the massive red door wide enough to wedge his body through, and stalked to where she’d anchored her feet, shoving the syringe into the man’s arm. His thumb pressed the medicine into Drogo’s oversized deltoid, and the patient threw his head back with a shout, releasing the tray he’d brought down on Brienne’s head and grabbing him instead—

As quickly as he’d assailed them, Drogo relented, his grip loosening on Jaime’s arm and his muscles relaxing as he tumbled into unconsciousness. They all stared at Jaime then, their expressions a mixture of concern and horror...

But hers was alight with rage.

He did his best to ignore it as he calmly crossed to the sharps container and disposed of the syringe, trying to forget the warmth of the damning blood that trickled beyond his fingers to blossom on the floor at his feet.

“I’ll finish closing the incision,” Brienne directed them. “Shae, we’ll need another room.”

In his peripheral vision he saw the nurse nod and leave the room without a word, Baelish on her heels.

“Dr. Baelish.”

The man stopped where he was, his eyebrows knitted in bewilderment as Brienne stepped over to the IV pole, cancelling out the anesthesia and removing the bag.

“Major Tarth, my team will—”

“Pod, have the lab test this solution STAT,” she commanded, handing the young man the medication. “I want the results by six o’clock. Tell them to send a copy to Dr. Lannister as well.”

Baelish grew restless as he stood there, but both men followed her instructions. Jaime considered the leader she must have been in a military hospital overseas, her coarse voice giving orders around an operating table; the idea thrilled him.

Once it was only the three of them in the room with the patient, Brienne straightened her back, bringing herself to her full height as she moved in on the anesthesiologist.

“Major Tarth, I don’t—”  

“What did you give him?” she demanded.

A pause.

“It was methohexital sodium,” he assured her. “Pulled it from the pharmacy myself.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Mr. Lannister, what was in that syringe?”

Proud that she’d noticed the same detail he had as he’d watched the procedure from outside, he stepped forward.

“Methohexital sodium.”

Baelish chuckled like he was playing the most enjoyable game.

“Are you sure you can trust him, major?” he questioned, his hood unable to hide the acrid sweetness in his tone as he took in the blood on Jaime’s scrub shirt. “A grieving alcoholic who crippled a ten-year-old boy? The same man who admitted to killing the greatest general surgeon the country has ever seen?”

Jaime stole a glance at Brienne, whose stoic face tripped at the mention of Aerys. Everyone’s did.

“We’ll see what the results say,” she concluded, “but nothing about Mr. Lannister’s past has anything to do with the fact that Mr. Drogo didn’t react that way until _after_ you hung the second bag.”

The smug smile on Baelish’s lips faded, and Brienne resolutely put her back to the man, moving to the patient’s ankle and knotting the fibers with her skilled fingers. He stood frozen to the spot, unsure of what to do next.

“Major, I—”

“You’re dismissed, Dr. Baelish.”

It took more self-control than Jaime realized not to snicker at the way Baelish obediently slunk out of the room like an admonished schoolboy.

“Take off your shirt.”

Jaime whirled around to look at her.

“What...?”

After she’d clipped the fibers with the scissors (the only instruments that hadn’t found their way to the floor), she brushed by him and headed for the suite’s bathroom.

Shit. She _was_ the only one left to do this, wasn’t she?

The sound of water caressing ceramic tile meant she’d turned on the shower, so he did as he was told, removing his scrub shirt first and tossing it in the bin lined with the red biohazard bag. Drogo’s blood had soaked through the white tee he’d worn beneath, and as Jaime peeled it off, he could feel the sweat from the three-hour wait outside the containment unit.

“Bottoms too,” she ordered, rinsing the blood from her gloved hands and wiping them on one of the three neatly folded towels resting by the sink.

He sought her gaze, wanting to see for himself what she might be thinking as he tentatively hooked his thumbs into the elastic waistband of his pants and boxers, but her eyes were fixed on the wall behind him. Once he’d stripped entirely, he stepped under the hot water and went to work rinsing the blood from his arm, disregarding how the water spiraling over his toes diffused into an almost erotic pink—

“Here.”

She was holding out a washcloth, and he dutifully took it, using it to scrub the drying edges of the patient’s blood from his body as she sat on the lid of the toilet, staring out the door and at their patient.

“Did he compromise your suit?”

Brienne shook her head, tracing the track of a ruby rivulet that had run down the front of her hood with her finger.

“The positive pressure’s still working,” she mumbled.  

Jaime felt his lips press together in a thin line, uncertain if he should tell her how glad he was that she hadn’t been exposed as he raked the washcloth against his torso.

“Why did you do it?”

A scowl shattered his face, his hand stilling.

“He would have—”

“I _know_ ,” she bit out. “I’m not an idiot. But we’re just coworkers. All of us. I...” She exhaled, her shoulders slouching slightly. “I’m not sure I would have done the same. So, why did _you_?”

The sudden weight within his chest compelled him to brace himself against the wall with his hands, the warm water smoothing itself down his chest and shoulders, dancing with the ends of his chin-length hair as he closed his eyes—

“Have you ever heard of Wildfire Pharmaceuticals?”

She scoffed.

“Of course.”

He straightened his back, turning to run his hands through his hair as the water kissed his cheeks.

“Aerys started to exhibit signs of Alzheimer’s disease two years into my residency,” he explained, bowing his head so the water ran off the tip of his nose. “He couldn’t remember people’s names. Coworkers, patients... At one point, we were finishing an appendectomy, and he smiled up at me and asked what part of the woman’s colon was causing the issue, because he couldn’t seem to find one. Her appendix was already on the tray.”

Recalling what had happened in the two years following that operation scalded him, so he leaned against the side of the shower to face her, sinking down to the tile floor as the water beat down upon him.

“A Wildfire representative came to visit him one day and told him about an experimental drug they were developing. It was meant to slow the progression of Alzheimer’s disease, but Aerys continually denied he was having any problems with memory.” He lifted his hand and examined it; the one that had dribbled Drogo’s blood the way a clumsy child might eat ice cream. It was clean. “His mood swings got worse, and he’d forget he was in the middle of a procedure. Before long, everyone on our team knew about it. The Targaryens had been the largest donors to the organization for nearly 100 years; we couldn’t just fire him.” 

When he looked up, he saw her gaping at him in alarm.

“Then the day of reckoning came: Former Senator Rickard Stark came in for a kidney transplant, and his son, Brandon, was his compatible donor. The first portion of the operation went smoothly, so we started the final half of the procedure. As we were attaching the new kidney, Aerys forgot what he was doing and sliced through Rickard’s common iliac artery. A few seconds later, he was dead.” Her blue eyes had widened in disbelief, and he couldn’t blame her. “While we did our best to code him, Brandon was left alone on his table. The anesthesiologist should have stayed with him, but everyone was coding Rickard, and Brandon was no longer a priority. We missed the early signs of future respiratory distress due to anesthetic overdose, and by the time the monitors beeped, it was too late. Ned switched off his mechanical ventilator two weeks later.” 

Pausing to inhale, the warm water soothed him as he rested his head against the tile wall behind him.

“That was the day Aerys called Wildfire; if they let him try the experimental drug, he’d talk to my father about letting them sell their pharmaceuticals to the physicians in the hospital. Of course, the drug only made him worse, and my father couldn’t do anything about it. His hands were tied with Targaryen money. Eventually, Aerys had his stroke, but it was too late.” Jaime swallowed hard, the tears pooling behind his eyelids obscured by the droplets of shower water filtering over his flesh. “More than thirty people in the OR died at his hands that summer. Men, women... _Children.”_

His tears were flowing freely now at the recollection of the telemetry cords he’d had to detach; the incisions he’d had to stitch or staple shut over rigid bodies that had once been pliant and full of life.

“My father paid the families and the presses to keep them quiet, but I knew better than that. If Aerys could walk after his stroke, or use his hands in any way, he’d keep operating; keep denying what was going on. He insisted on continuing the drug, despite my father’s vow to have any Wildfire Pharmaceutical representatives arrested if they were found on the premises.” The tears were blurring his vision now. “I don’t think Aerys expected to die from any of it. So, I...” He focused on the floor as he protectively drew his knees into his chest, wrapping his arms around them. “The day he was supposed to be discharged, I forged his signature on his advanced directive paperwork, entered it into his electronic chart, and labeled him DNR. It was dumb luck that he coded an hour later.”

For the first time in a few minutes, he glanced up at her; Brienne’s cheeks reflected the fluorescent lights in the tears she’d shed at his retelling.

“Why haven’t you told anyone?” she murmured. “If it’s true, you’d be—”

“What? Vindicated?” A hand spitefully rose to his cheeks and rubbed down his face, his thickening beard scraping his palm. “The last three years of my residency were a living hell because of him. My father promoted me to Aerys’s position as Chief of Surgery to keep me from telling anyone about his lack of action, even though I was only thirty-two. By the time I was ready to talk about it, my precious sister was up to her neck in oxy and I was drinking three fifths of whiskey a day to forget the last fifteen years had ever happened. You really think anyone wanted to hear my side?”

The expression that sketched across her features made him feel _much_ more than naked.

“That’s why you went to rehab after what happened to Bran,” she realized, clearing her throat of the lubrication her tears had produced. “You looked at yourself and saw—”

“Yes.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke, the clatter of water hitting the floor the only noise in the immediate space.

“You wanted to know why I did this,” Jaime clarified, rising to his feet and rotating the handle to the ‘off’ position. “Because at the end of the day, you’re a better surgeon than me. You have people who depend on you, who need you—”

“Jaime—”

“I saw the adoption papers, Brienne,” he confessed.

She frowned, the hand that had been holding a towel out to him falling a few inches.

“You had no right to snoop around my room.”

Sighing, he took the towel and dried himself.

“The point is,” he continued, “you have so much more to lose than I do, and I couldn’t let that happen. Besides,” he tried to smile, aware of how foolish it must seem juxtaposed with his somber mood, “you have a birthday party to go to on Friday night. It’d be a shame for you to miss it because you’re stuck in here.”

As he wrapped the towel around his lower body, tucking in the end so it would stay there, he saw her frown deepen.

“And now _you_ won’t be there,” she stated plainly.

Maybe he was mistaken, but she sounded... Disappointed? 

He opened his mouth to respond—

“The room’s ready,” a voice announced from the door.

It was Shae, her suit still on, clutching a clean hospital gown in one hand and a spray bottle of diluted bleach in the other; both were meant for him.

“We should go to your room,” she said in her rough German accent, tossing him the gown and taking in Brienne’s suit, “and you should get cleaned up. The lab is already testing that bag.”

The taller woman’s eyes flitted out the door to Drogo—

“I’ll take care of post-op,” Shae interceded. “You go.”

When Brienne turned to him one last time, he keenly felt the gravity of what he’d done; for at least ten days, maybe longer, he wouldn’t see her. He wouldn’t see his team, his brother...  

In all actuality, he could be dead a week from now.

As he bowed his head at her in affirmation, committing every freckle to memory, he couldn’t bring himself to regret his choice.

* * *

After she’d thoroughly sprayed his body down with the bleach solution and he’d donned his hospital gown, Shae escorted him down the hall and into the room she had prepared for him. The containment unit was one of the oldest in the country, so family contact with patients wasn’t exactly a priority in the way it had been structured. Shae had apparently considered this, giving him the only room with a window to the hallway outside the unit. It overlooked the monitor’s desk, and he could see Peck sitting there still, giving him a sad wave.

Pity. Jaime fucking _hated_ pity.

“...a television, and your phone is mounted on the wall,” Shae recited on as she buzzed around the room, opening the blinds to let some sunlight in. “The remote is on your nightstand. I have you listed as appropriate to order your own food, and you have no dietary restrictions, so—”

“Does my father know?”

The woman stopped moving, shifting from nurse to friend in a matter of seconds.

“He knows,” she said carefully, “and I can call Tyrion to let him know as soon as I leave the unit, if you’d like...?”

God, Tyrion was going to lose his _shit._

“That’s fine,” he answered her. “I’d rather him hear it from you. If I tell him, he’ll do something drastic.”

When Shae smiled at him, he got the feeling that she agreed.

* * *

After drowning himself in yet another episode of _Law & Order: SVU_, someone tapped on his window. Peeking at the clock on the wall, he noticed it was nearly five, but Tyrion had said he wouldn’t be there until about 5:30. Confused by who it might be, he climbed out of bed and crossed to the glass, expecting to see his father standing there.

Instead, it was Arya Stark.

Her wet hair was pulled back into a ponytail, the chlorine from her swim practice lingering in the way the loose strands kept themselves close. She tilted her head in the direction of the phone on the wall by the desk, an eyebrow cocked in question. He gestured his room number (1210) with his fingers, and within moments, the phone on his wall was ringing. Unsure of what was happening, he answered it, her hazel eyes boring into his own.

“How did you—”

“Selwyn called us at school, so I left practice early,” she cut in. “Took a bus.”

Jaime’s jaw slackened.

“And does _she_ know about this adventure of yours?” he inquired.

The teenager paused, shaking her head.

“I wanted to see you first.”

What the hell...?

“Why would—”

“Is it true you could die?” she challenged.

Her obstinance was as frustrating as Brienne’s, and he could only lean against the cool glass with his free arm, resting his head against his wrist.

“Yes,” he admitted. “His blood got on me.”

Nothing else was said for a minute or so.

“You make him laugh, you know,” she began, sitting at the desk in front of her. “Bran. It’s not an easy thing to do.” The girl took a breath. “Even Sansa respects you...”

Jaime met her gaze through the window as she smoothed some stray hairs back against her head, the dampness gluing them down.  

“What exactly are you trying to say?” he pried, his brow furrowing. “I thought you’d be—”

“Happy?” She rolled her eyes as if he’d made an infantile assumption. “Of course I’m not happy about it. You _mean_ something to them now. I haven’t seen Brienne smile this much since before Mom died. I’d be stupid to want you dead, Lannister.”

He could feel the creases above his nose relax at her words.

“Then why are you here?”

Arya sat back a little at his candor, clearly not having been prepared to answer any questions herself.

“I need to know why you did it,” she replied, the uncertainty in her voice finally matching her fourteen years. “There’s a decision I have to make, and if I say yes, we’ll probably have to learn to get along.”

Jaime smirked.

“And you’re not sure you’re capable of that.”

When she sheepishly glanced down at the desk, he understood what she was talking about.

“I did it for _you_ ,” he emphasized. “For all of you.” Jaime couldn’t remember ever seeing her so mystified. “Look, I’ve known about those papers since the first night. What the three of you have with that woman is special, and unique, and if you don’t think you should have to define it in a court of law, you’re right; you shouldn’t. But if I were you, I’d say yes, especially after today. It could’ve just as easily been her instead of me.”

The smile that tugged on her lips as she actually listened to his advice was a battering ram, colliding with his heart and cracking it open enough to let the familiar warmth back in.

If only Ned could see him now.

“Bran’s naïve, you know,” she said matter-of-factly as she stood from the chair. “People don’t change; they just make better choices.”

He chuckled at this, adjusting his posture and shoving his free hand into his pocket.

“Some better than others.”

The girl’s smile broadened, but was quickly extinguished by the thought of something that smeared her joy with concern.

“They told me she’s in the lab,” she mused. “Why wouldn’t she be in her office?”

He merely shrugged.

“There was some doubt about the second medication the anesthesiologist hung.”

“Was it Baelish?” she pressed.

In an instant, his stomach formed a sinkhole in his abdomen. How had she...?

“Yes...?”

The girl hung up and dashed down the hall toward the elevators, leaving him baffled by what she could know that no one else did.

* * *

As soon as Tyrion arrived, Jaime ordered his food, and after they’d figured out how he’d meet with his counselor for the time he was unable to attend meetings, his brother had turned to leave, his eyes full of tears.

“Try not to die, all right?” he’d begged.

He’d nodded, knowing full well it was a promise he might not be able to keep.

Dinner arrived once Tyrion left, and Jaime had barely finished eating his herb-crunch chicken dinner (which, granted, was fairly delicious for hospital food) when the phone rang around 6:45. After muting the television, he reached over and took it, gulping down his last bite of garlic potatoes.

“Hello?”

“Come to the window,” his father’s voice instructed. “We have to talk. Major Tarth is with me.”

Scrambling to his feet from where he sat on his bed, he nearly knocked over his tray table in his haste to hear what they’d determined.

“Shortly after the events of today, a young wolf barged into my office and told me an interesting story,” his father declared, pressing the speaker button so Brienne could participate. “She said that after she’d come to speak to _you_ , she learned that Dr. Petyr Baelish was the one who’d hung the bag of varenicline solution instead of methohexital sodium. It would seem Dr. Stark and Dr. Baelish were close at some point during their college years, and his unrelenting fondness carried on through her marriage. The girl is under the impression that someone bribed him to administer the wrong drug.”

“Why would he take the bait, though?” Jaime countered.

“Because Baelish would be the second-best option for the children,” Brienne interjected. “If something were to happen to me...”

Her silence chilled him with the possibilities he was afraid to discover lurking in it.

“The Stark girl grabbed _this_ on her way to my office,” Tywin proclaimed, holding up a copy of People Magazine. “It proved her theory quite well.”

There they all were, the Starks and the Lannisters, in the center of the cover. They were standing across from one another, him in black and her in blue, at the grave of his children.  

 _Their_ children.

“Cersei,” he growled, his mouth souring with rage. “It was Cersei.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like the previous one, the events of this chapter were inspired by 'Elastic Heart' by Sia. What a goddess. (*swoons*)
> 
> Kudos, comments, and bookmarks are always appreciated and keep me going, but your time is the most valuable thing to me, so thank you for reading! 
> 
> Healthcare Tidbit:  
> \- Positive pressure suits can actually still protect you if they are punctured, but *not* if they are torn.  
> \- Methohexital sodium is a drug commonly used for general anesthesia.  
> \- Your deltoid is the upper arm muscle you've received a vaccination in at some point in your life.  
> \- Your common iliac artery branches directly from your abdominal aorta. A complete cut would almost instantly kill you.  
> \- In case you didn't know, DNR stands for 'do not resuscitate'.  
> \- Patients who 'code' are found to be pulseless and, by definition, dead or in need of a full code (basic life support including CPR and a defibrillator).  
> \- Varenicline is the generic name for Chantix, which can (apparently) cause violent side effects if improperly dosed. That one was a *very* interesting read, if you feel like Googling your way into a medication wormhole.


	12. I Will Reach You - Jaime VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime's time in biocontainment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Casting Heads-Up:  
> Pia is played by Saoirse Ronan in this AU, and Peck is played by Josh Hutcherson. 
> 
> Healthcare Heads-Up:  
> \- Q# means how often something is performed on a patient. Q4 vitals would mean a set of vital signs every four hours, etc.  
> \- A crucial part of addiction recovery programs is the sponsor, who is a successfully recovered person that acts as a mentor to a recently rehabilitated person. They are chosen by the recently rehabilitated person, typically from within the group they attend.  
> \- AA = Alcoholics Anonymous. (No, I don't think you're stupid, but not everyone that reads this is from the United States.)  
> \- AA counselors are leaders of the group that are elected from and by all who attend the meetings.  
> \- The Serenity Prayer is an integral part of AA: "God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference."  
> \- Normal blood pressure is 110-119/60-79, and normal pulses are between 60-90 beats per minute. 
> 
> Enjoy!

“November 6th?” Jaime questioned into the mouthpiece of the phone. “That’s only a few weeks from now...”

“Three weeks from today, as a matter of fact,” Tywin finished for him. “Baelish’s arrest has expedited matters. Your sister’s actions have proven far more dangerous than any of us imagined, so the trial has been moved up a month. Kevan has chosen to lead the prosecution instead.”

His feet took a step back from the window in astonishment.

 _“We’re_ leading the prosecution?” he murmured. “Against a member of our own family?”

Tywin pinched the bridge of his nose in consternation before thrusting the same hand into his pocket.

“You said you wanted Major Tarth to be protected,” he reiterated. “Her _and_ the children. If Kevan prosecutes, he’ll win against whoever actually agrees to represent her, and Cersei will remain contained. Is that not what you want?”

“Of course it is, but—”

“Let me be perfectly clear: Their protection is also _my_ priority,” Tywin emphasized. “With Martell in the Oval Office, I have no sway in the decisions that will be made for the next three years. If we maintain this alliance—”  

“Typical,” Jaime muttered.

“Excuse me...?” his father accused, pulling his shoulders back in offense.

A chuckle escaped Jaime’s lips.

“You’d rather say you need her for— _whatever_ this is, than admit to yourself you care about her.”

His father smirked; a disfigured, foreboding thing.

“Well then, the apple doesn’t fall very far from the tree now, does it?”

The scowl on Jaime’s face softened, the pressure in his chest at his father’s words overwhelming him with the familiar warmth of white bedding and mugs of chamomile tea—

“I’ll stop by around seven to give you more specifics,” his father concluded. “If anything changes, you’ll be informed.”

Jaime nodded, staring through the window at the blank wall on the other side of the hallway long after Tywin left him there.

* * *

The rest of his second day in the containment unit went on as he’d expected; solitary meals, occasional visits from the nurses and infectious disease physicians, Q4 vital signs, and Q8 blood draws. Around 3 PM, someone from the visitor’s desk called his room to tell him that a friend of his was coming up to see him, and Jaime paused the movie he’d been watching to take some measured breaths in the silence, grounding himself the way he always did in his car before a meeting. About ten minutes later, a tap on the glass roused him from where he sat by the window, and he sprung out of bed, pointing to the phone and signing 1210 with his fingers. The moment it rang, Jaime snatched it up—

“You look like hell,” Edd observed with his signature tight smile.

“Thanks. Doing my best to grow out the scruff like you do,” he responded, swiping his short beard from his cheeks to his chin with his free hand. “I figured staying in here without a razor could only help.”

His sponsor chortled, pulling a card from inside his jacket.

“Jeor told them what’s happened. They wanted me to give you this. I guess I’ll have to...”

Edd pressed the front of the simple, black card with white lettering against the window so Jaime could read it:

**_And now our watch begins!_ **

A smirk played with his lips; of _course_ an AA group would choose a ‘get well’ card that recited the ancient rites of a nearly extinct tribe of Native Americans.

His friend opened the inside and flattened it against the glass, and Jaime could see that every person in the group had signed it. Below their signatures and well-wishes there was a missive in the broad, cursive writing Jaime knew to be their counselor’s:

**_We always open our meetings with the Serenity Prayer, but so few of us are able live its true meaning. We’re glad to see you have the courage to change the things you can, Jaime, and sincerely hope to see you again soon. – Jeor Mormont_ **

Swallowing hard, Jaime nodded, meeting Edd’s eyes.

“Tell them I said thank you.”

The shorter man smiled, closing the card and placing it between the computer and the wall.

“So,” Edd continued as he sunk into the monitor’s chair, the phone against his ear, “other than the fact that you might die, how are things going?”

The nonchalant tone he used filled Jaime with the lightness the man’s friendship always provided, and for the first time since he’d run in the room and jabbed Drogo’s arm with a needle, he felt content.

They spoke for about an hour; Edd was having trouble with the VA, who kept losing his verification documents for his PTSD disability benefits renewal, and Jaime shared how the plans for the trial had changed due to Baelish’s involvement.

“Jesus, Jaime,” Edd sighed. “I knew she was crazy, but this...”

“Yeah.”

Edd leaned back in the chair, the squeak of protesting springs permeating the earpiece of the phone.

“And what does Major Tarth think of all this? She running yet?”

Jaime frowned, realizing that—

“No,” he said incredulously. “She hasn’t.”

His friend’s brown eyes glinted.

“Well, your first year is behind you,” he began. “If you wanted to try for... I don’t know, _something_ , it wouldn’t be unhealthy.”

“Something...?”

When his sponsor cocked an eyebrow, Jaime shook his head vehemently.

“No. No...” he stuttered with a chuckle. “She’d never put herself in that situation. Not with the kids.” He took his free hand and brushed his hair back out of his face. “Besides, we work to—”

“I don’t need an explanation,” Edd interrupted. “That’s not what this is about. I’m only saying that if you _did_ want to pursue anything later on, I doubt it would do any damage.”

Bowing his head in acknowledgment, Jaime exhaled, unaware he’d even been holding his breath.

“Maybe you could bring her to one of our meetings,” his friend suggested. “Not that we don’t love seeing your brother every week, but it sounds like Major Tarth should come with you now and then.”

“Come where, exactly?” a muted voice asked.

When Edd’s head whirled around to stare down the hall, his jaw slackening in amazement at what was no doubt her height, Jaime told him to press the speaker button. The shorter man managed to punch it with his finger and put the phone down on the desk just as Brienne came into view.

“Edd, this is Major Tarth,” Jaime spoke into the phone. “Major Tarth, Edd Tollett, my sponsor.”

She shot him a skeptical glance through the window before graciously extending a hand to Edd, who grasped it instantly.

“Jaime said you were in the army,” he announced, an edge of respect in his words as he released her hand. “I retired from the marine corps, myself.”

Brienne’s face lit up at the mention of Edd’s service.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Edd was telling me I should invite you to one of our meetings,” Jaime clarified. “For AA.”

Her eyes widened almost indiscernibly, but it was enough for him to notice.

“He’s brought your name up on occasion,” Edd confessed, “and I know the rest of us would love to meet you. Nothing fancy about it; just a dozen or so people sitting in a circle, talking about themselves.”

Brienne smirked.

“I’m sure he’s quite popular, then,” she mused.

When Edd threw his head back and laughed at her joke, Jaime rolled his eyes in mock exasperation even as he felt a proud heat rise from his gut to his lips. Once his friend had recovered, he smiled at Jaime.

“I like her,” he proclaimed, turning to Brienne. “You do a great job of keeping him in line.”

“I try my best,” she affirmed, and Jaime could have sworn he saw her blush.

Edd’s gaze fell to the hand Jaime couldn’t see, and he gave Brienne a knowing look.

“Well, I’d better head to work,” he conceded, picking up the phone and handing it to Brienne as his brown eyes flitted back to Jaime. “Jeor will come by sometime on Thursday.”

Jaime sighed with relief.

“Thanks, Edd. It’s nice to—”

“Oh, shut up,” he teased. “I know you’re grateful. Just get out of there alive, all right?”

After Jaime nodded in understanding, Edd placed a hand on Brienne’s arm.

“Nice to meet you, major. Maybe we’ll see you soon.”

And with a wink at Jaime, he trudged down the hall and out of sight. Brienne brought the phone to her ear, deactivating the speaker as she placed a sky blue envelope on the desk; the object that had apparently garnered Edd’s attention.

“Shouldn’t you be making your rounds?” he wondered aloud.

“Pod’s more than capable of handling things on his own for a few minutes. We, uh...” She held the phone between her shoulder and her ear, pulling the card out of the envelope. “The team got this for you.”

She held it up so he could see it: It was a generic, pale yellow ‘get well soon’ card, and on the inside were the names of everyone they’d worked with for the last five months. Each signature was accompanied by a note; Shae’s made him snicker (“Your brother is driving me crazy! If you don’t get out of there, we’ll have _two_ dead Lannisters on our hands.”), while Pod’s was exceptionally kind (“Your smile is greatly missed by all of us, and our patients and their families are thinking of you.”).

There was only one problem.

“You’re not on here.”

She opened her mouth to say something when—

“Brienne!” a joyful voice rang out.

A girl (only about eleven years old, if her height was any indication) flew down the hallway so quickly he couldn’t see who it was, and Brienne had to abandon the phone and the card on the desk to catch the child as she launched at her, throwing her arms around her waist.

“This is unexpected...!” she exclaimed, a toothy grin spreading over her features as she punched the speaker button, cupping the girl’s scarred face with her hands when she stared up at her. “I didn’t think you were coming!”

“We weren’t sure we were,” another, more measured tenor droned as it approached. “I only got your message this morning.”

Stannis Baratheon came into view carrying a black and gold backpack, which meant—

“Shireen...?” Jaime breathed in disbelief.

The girl spun around to try to find him at the sound of his voice, and he tapped on the glass; he couldn’t recall the last time someone had been so happy to see him.

“Uncle Jaime!”

“Hey, kiddo!” he greeted her, flattening one hand against the window. “What are you doing here?”

The girl almost seemed hurt.

“I wanted to see you,” she defended. “Brienne said you were sick, and I remembered how you stayed with me in the ICU after our house burned down. I brought something to read to you, the way you read to me.”

Jaime was entirely unprepared for the tears that punched him in the throat at her words.

“It’s an excerpt from an article my history teacher let me borrow,” she persisted, taking her backpack from her father and pilfering through it, extracting two or three sheets of paper. “It’s about the first clinical trials for a Zika virus vaccine!”

“She’s decided she’s going to become a doctor,” Stannis elaborated. “Not that any of us are particularly thrilled with the idea...”

Jaime only smiled.

“I think it’s wonderful.”

Shireen beamed at him, situating herself at the desk as Brienne and Stannis stepped out of sight.

“I helped you when the letters got scrambled,” she reminded him. “Now _you_ can help me pronounce the scientific terminology.”

He nodded.

“Deal.”

* * *

Wednesday was a little brighter. There were three cards taped open against the outside of his window, forcing him to acknowledge that people cared about him; he certainly hadn’t anticipated the card Stannis had brought, bearing both his and Shireen’s signatures. The girl had drawn a heart and a smiley face on either side of her name, and whenever he grew morose about his situation, Jaime crossed his room to examine it.

The lack of one signature, however, slowly ate away at him.

His blood work continued to test negative for the virus, and his vital signs were fairly consistent; nonetheless, Jaime knew that it was still the early days. Anything could happen, and his imagination was running riot with the possibilities. So, when Selwyn came by with all three Stark children around six o’clock, he was more than pleased to see them.

“She doesn’t know we’re here,” Selwyn spoke in a slightly sheepish tone. “The kids had an idea, and they wanted to ask your opinion.”

Sansa bit her bottom lip in barely restrained excitement, her expression graduating to a transcendent glow when Selwyn tilted his head at her in encouragement.

“We think you should order the cake,” Sansa revealed. “But first, you have to know what we’re—”

“He already _knows_ ,” Arya groaned, raising her eyebrows when he gave her a confused look. “The adoption papers?”

A nuclear blast of butterflies erupted so violently from his gut it was a miracle they weren’t fluttering around the room.

“You’re saying yes...?”

Bran nodded his head.

“None of us can agree on an idea for the cake,” he explained. “That’s when we realized that you won’t be there. If you order it, though, it’ll be like you’re there with us.”

The thought they were giving him was enormous, and yet—

“I don’t know,” he said into the phone. “You’re as good as family to her.” The question he’d let slip at the funeral echoed in the back of his mind. “I don’t even think she considers me a friend.”

“But you consider her one,” Selwyn stated simply. “Isn’t that enough?”

Everything she’d done for him the last few weeks leapt to the front of his consciousness, while his surroundings were the damning evidence of the first (and only) gesture he’d ever done solely for her. He wished he could be there to see her reaction to their news at the party; to see her cry tears of joy instead of those he’d witnessed thus far...

A half-formed picture of a pink and blue cake emerged from the depths of his ruminations, and he smiled.

“I’ve got an idea.”

* * *

On Thursday, Tyrion had dinner reservations with Shae, so Jaime’s only visitor was Jeor. The elected counselor was forthright, asking him how he was doing mentally during his time in isolation, and Jaime was truthful about the ‘what-ifs’ that occasionally popped into his head.

“May I suggest something, boy?”

“Sure.”

“Anytime you start to think those things, read these,” Jeor continued, pointing to the cards on his window. “They weren’t put up for show.”

So, by Friday morning, he’d gotten in the habit of rereading the cards on his window after the nurses were through collecting each blood draw, the signatures and messages doing well to alleviate his anxiety. There were five of them now, and he savored each one as his fingertips touched the glass, caressing their signatures as best as he could. The newest addition from Selwyn and the Stark children had been the last to be taped along the bottom, taking up the remaining space, so Shae had to put Tyrion’s card above them, along the side of the glass.

It was close to 11 AM when Drogo was wheeled by his room and out of the unit on a stretcher, his body encased by the BSL-4 transfer chamber. Through the clear plastic cover on the sides, he could see the man was covered by a white sheet, his blood saturating it in the spots where his hemorrhaging had been the worst.

Terror finally gripped him in its talons, and Jaime barely made it to the toilet in time before his vomit expelled itself. When the freshly-suited nurse came in to check his vitals shortly thereafter, she’d had to do so as he was bent over the toilet, his stomach still cramping. His blood pressure was 90/54 and his pulse was 124, yet his O2 saturation was staying at 99%.

The nurse, a sweet, young woman named Pia, leaned down on one knee and stroked his back in circles through his gown to soothe him.

“There isn’t any blood,” she observed quietly, peeking in the toilet, “so it’s probably nerves. Do you want me to take them again in a few minutes?”

Unable to speak, he stumbled to his feet as she clutched his arm to steady him. She helped him into the bed, pulling his blankets over him as he tried to forget what he’d seen...What could happen.

Though his vitals had shown signs of improvement ten minutes later, his thoughts still ran wild. The urge for a drink to ease his worries began to affect him more than the night Brienne had stopped him from sipping the scotch he’d found in his father’s desk.

“I think you should take half a Xanax,” Pia told him, entering both sets of vitals into his chart on the computer. “One time won’t hurt you, and I can chart that you took it under my suggestion.”

He nodded in assent, managing to take a deep breath and close his eyes as he swallowed the broken pill with the water she provided. In less than half an hour, he was out for the count. At some time or other, he could have sworn he heard a phone ringing, but he ignored it, the blossoming signatures and faces that danced with him keeping the world at bay.

* * *

When he woke several hours later, it was to find that he’d slept through lunch, and that Pia had ordered two trays for his dinner to make up for it. The plates were still warm when he uncovered them, and he smiled when he saw another card on his window, this time in Pia’s hand. To his amusement, Peck had signed it too; Jaime had always wondered when those two would cut to the chase and understand how well-suited they were.

There was nothing particularly thrilling on television, so he settled on watching ‘The Princess Bride’ as it played on one of the more mundane channels, tearing into the food that had been left for him. Luckily, he’d caught the film closer to the beginning, right after Buttercup had been kidnapped.  

The ring of his phone jolted him, and he mindlessly reached over and pinned it against his shoulder, his mouth full of green beans.

“Hello?” he managed.

“Tyrion tried to call you earlier, but you didn’t answer,” Brienne said hurriedly. “Is everything okay?”

He gulped down what he’d been chewing, wincing a little in his haste.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” He muted the movie, focusing his attention on the phone. “I, uh... I had to take half a Xanax, so I was out for most of the afternoon.” Her silence was brimming with questions. “They took Drogo’s body out earlier...”

“And you panicked.”

It was his turn to be silent.

“There’s no shame in it, Jaime,” she assured him. “I honestly expected it sooner than this. You’ve... You’re doing really well.” He heard her inhale, though it sounded more like a sniffle. “Dad said you were great with the kids on Wednesday. Told me you’re one of the bravest people he’s ever met.”

Jaime smiled.

“Funny. I’d say the same thing about you.”

A chuckle rushed through his phone as something bumped against her mouthpiece, a second sniffle resonating in his ear.

“Happy Birthday, by the way,” he added, hoping to distract her from her tears. “How did it go?”

“It was perfect,” she sighed contentedly. “I opened the box with the cake in it, and it was... God, Jaime, it was _gorgeous_ —I have no idea how you managed to order something like that on such short notice—And then I turned to look at the kids, and they were all holding their papers...”

He heard her sob with happiness, and his veins fucking _itched_ with the need to see her.

“I wish I could have been there.”

The cacophony of a nose blowing into tissue reverberated through his own head.

“You were,” she said resolutely. “They saved you a slice of the ‘it’s a boy’ side. I’m supposed to bring it to you tomorrow.”

“Good. I want to know what my hard-earned money tastes like before I die.”                                        

And there it was at last: Her laugh, bright and raucous, filling his ear and flooding his lungs.

The rest of the conversation was mostly about the party, and what he’d missed; Arya smeared some icing on her sister, Shae bought her a new badge reel for her hospital ID that said, “I found this humerus,” and Sandor had given her a hand-forged kitchen knife that resembled a silver-hilted broadsword adorned with real sapphires. Margaery and Olenna had gone in on their gift together, acquiring custom-framed copies of the kids’ birth certificates to mount in the dining room for her.

“Hopefully they’ll all be up by Halloween,” she fretted. “I have so much decorating to do...”

“At least you know you’ll have help if you need it.”

An easy pause washed over them, and he heard the rustle of fabric.

“Are you watching anything?” she inquired, her voice strained as she moved about.

“‘The Princess Bride,’” he answered, pushing the tray table away as he reclined in his bed, pulling his blankets across his legs. “Only thing on TV worth watching right now. Westley and Inigo just finished their duel.”

“What channel?”

She went to the living room, and they finished the film together, chatting through the commercial breaks and quoting the funnier moments back to each other. By the time she was in her bed, and they were switching out their lights, she hit him with worrisome information.

“Arya wants to testify against Baelish,” she whispered. “She said my testimony and the video of the operation won’t be enough to convince the jury, but she won’t tell me what she knows.”

“Maybe she doesn’t want to hurt you.”

“But how could she—”

“Brienne... You and I are great at blaming ourselves for the things we don’t know, but should have,” he rationalized. “Kids notice those sorts of things. It may...” How could he put this? “It might be that it could hurt someone else too, and she wants to share it where those people are protected.”

Her silence made him feel like he’d done the _opposite_ of make her feel better.

“Try not to think about it too much, all right? Trust her judgment, and focus on your testimony. It’ll be fine.”

“He tried to _kill_ me, Jaime...”

“But he didn’t. And if anybody ever tries again, I can think of eleven people who’d be more than willing to take care of it for you.” Jaime wracked his brain for something else comforting to say. “Hey... Guess what?”

“What?” she grumbled.

He thought his cheeks would split with the force of his smile.

“You’re going to be a _mom_.”

Closing his eyes, he could picture the realization crashing over her features as she digested his words. The sound of her throat clearing was promising.

“I am,” she affirmed. “Thank you, Jaime.”

They made plans for her to visit him during lunch so they could eat together, said their goodbyes for the evening, and within minutes of hanging up the phone, he was fast asleep.

* * *

After his 8 AM blood draw the next morning, he walked over to the window to read the cards he’d collected, finding that a new one had been taped above the bottom on the other side of the glass. It was a fetching sea-foam green, and had only one word, underlined and punctuated with a period:

 **_ Friends _ ** **_._ **

It wasn’t a signature, but he felt euphoric all the same.

* * *

He was kept in containment for another week, and when his final blood test came back negative, they released him.

Tyrion brought him some clothes to change into in the suit-up chamber, and when he’d donned his first pair of pants in almost two weeks, the fabric grazing his legs with its seams, he nearly shuddered with pleasure.

“So, what would you like to do with your newfound freedom?” Tyrion goaded. “Is there somewhere you’d like to go? New York? Italy, perhaps?”

Jaime chuckled, glancing at the cards that Pia had carefully removed and stacked on the monitor’s desk for him.

“Actually, there is.”

* * *

He’d told his brother to wait at Hot Pie’s, and as he walked down the hall, his heart started to flutter so much he questioned their decision to let him go. Once he’d rapped his knuckles loudly on the hardwood—

“Come in.”

The palm of his hand was so sweaty it slipped on the handle, and as he opened the door, he saw her shoulders relax, her lips part, and her eyes...

God, he’d missed those blue, blue eyes.

“Jaime...” she said softly.

She was seated in her worn leather chair, the paperwork he’d grown used to seeing on her desk having piled itself on either side of her in his absence. Her light blonde hair had been freed from its usual low bun, and it fell in soft waves over her shoulders, complementing the minty green of her surgical scrubs.

“They let you go...?”

He smiled.

“They let me go.”

Within moments, she was on her feet, and they met halfway, Brienne’s arms wrapping around his neck as his own pulled her tightly to him, one hand clasping her waist and the other on her shoulder. He could smell the leftover aroma of her lavender and honeysuckle shampoo, and her calloused hand wound its way into his hair, gently keeping his head against her own.

His coworker, his anchor... His _friend._

* * *

The white pants fit a tad too snugly around his hips, but considering it had been 25 years since he’d last worn his baseball uniform, he was proud to say he could fit into it at all. The belt was simply part of the costume, so he’d only tightened it enough to help the overall aesthetic. He’d had four days to plan for this; the fact that he’d come up with anything remotely clever in such a short time frame was beyond him.

The patch had been a bit more difficult to craft. Fortunately, he’d found a blank red-bordered circle patch to which he could attach some stickers Tyrion had bought for him at the local Joann’s. Rather than put ‘City of Rockford Peaches’ on it with a set of scales in the middle, the patch had a wolf’s head in the center, surrounded by the words ‘City of D.C. Wolves’. He figured the Starks would appreciate the effort.

He was right.

When he first arrived at the Halloween party, the girls were _more_ than impressed with his costume; Sansa grinned outright, and Arya circled him, shaking her head with a smile when she saw that the back of his shirt still said ‘LANNISTER 86’. Bran, who was judging the costume contest, immediately declared that his ‘A League of Their Own’-inspired costume was the winner, and everyone in the near vicinity applauded.

The theme this year had been pairs’ costumes, and those that had gone along with it looked great. Margaery and Ros had come as Tinkerbell and Peter Pan, Sandor and Arya were Hopper and Eleven from ‘Stranger Things’, Bran and Mr. Luwin had painted their faces to resemble Dia de los Muertos sugar skulls, and Shae and Tyrion had come dressed as each other. Shae’s fake beard and the shoes sewn into the middle of her pants made Jaime feel like she should have been the winner, especially when she posed on her knees with his brother for photos. Tyrion was having the time of his life, his scrubs comfortable enough to assume all sorts of hilarious positions that would haunt their social media accounts for _weeks_.

The Queen of England (aka Olenna Tyrell) gave Jaime a solid smack on his backside soon after he stepped into the living room, commenting on how nicely his pants fit after all these years, and he flushed red to the ends of his cleats, silently hoping nobody else had heard her.

“I didn’t think you were capable of blushing,” he heard Brienne say as she moved to stand beside him.

“Well, it’s not every day a woman who’s known you since you were in diapers slaps you on your ass.”

Turning his head to look at her, he saw she’d dressed from head-to-toe in blue armor, her new kitchen knife on a belt around her waist.

“A footsoldier...?”

Brienne tilted her head in the direction of the kitchen, and Jaime noticed for the first time that Sansa was dressed as a Renaissance princess.

“Ah.” He understood at once. “You’re her knight in shining armor.”

“We’d play dress-up when she was a little girl, and she always wanted me to be the knight,” she said, her voice full of nostalgia. “You try telling a four-year-old with a face like that that women can’t be knights.”

Jaime smiled to himself; she was going to be a _fantastic_ mother.

“I forgot to mention before I left Saturday,” he began, “our meetings are on Tuesdays at two o’clock. The old gymnasium at Kingswood Recreation Center.”

“Is that an invitation?” she challenged.

Jaime shrugged.

“Only if you want it to be.”

The tension in her brows eased, and she nodded.

“I’ll be there.”

A wave of respite broke over him, and he smiled at her gratefully as they turned their attention back to the other guests, the tomfoolery their friends were getting into escalating by the second.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events of this chapter were inspired by 'Whisper' by A Fine Frenzy. 
> 
> Fun facts:  
> \- A few chapters ago, the 'are we becoming friends' line was a reference to 'When Harry Met Sally' and a nod to Nora Ephron. The joke before that (about how Jaime's head wouldn't fit in a dishwasher because it's too large) was a play on a Nikolaj/Gwendoline interview that always makes me laugh.  
> \- A Zika virus vaccine actually *is* in clinical trials right now. Neat!  
> \- 'The Princess Bride' was originally going to be 'Forrest Gump', but that was too much Tom Hanks in this fic for me. (*cries but laughs*)  
> \- Yes, her birthday cake was a gender-reveal baby cake to celebrate the kids' decision to say yes. You can see the cake that inspired the idea here--> https://www.pinterest.com/pin/524528687847280367/?lp=true  
> \- The number Jaime chose for his varsity baseball team, 86, was the year his mother died/Tyrion was born in my universe (1986).  
> \- My mom is the one who came up with the 'Shae/Tyrion dress as each other' bit. She's a genius and I'm pleased to share her DNA.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it, because the next chapter is going to be the TRIAL. GET HYPE. Kudos, comments, and bookmarks are much appreciated, and thank you so very much for reading!


	13. Like a Saturated Sunrise - Brienne VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first of two trials. Revelations and justice are served on a platter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short one, but it's because once this baby hit fifteen pages, I knew it had to be two separate chapters... And it works better for what I've got planned for the two following these anyway. I apologize for the long wait to update: I got a part-time job I *adore* to save money until December, and I've been training and exhausted, on top of normal life. Thanks for your patience. The good news is the second part of the trial should be posted before Thursday! (*excitedly throws spirit fingers your way*)
> 
> Anywho, enjoy!

_They left Jaime in Shireen’s capable hands, Stannis meandering down the hall alongside her to have the conversation_ she _had requested. Brienne kicked herself mentally, unsure of how to even begin. Reminding herself of how easily Bran had forgiven Jaime on the porch swing that night, and how Jaime hadn’t shied away from the conversation, she tightened and released her fists to ground her emotions, leaning against the wall when they came to a stop._

_“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” she began, choosing her words vigilantly. “I, uh... I’m sorry about Robert.”_

_“It’s fine,” he said, resting his back on the opposite wall. “If he wanted a different ending, he should have married a different woman.”_

_Three stretchers wheeling through the automatic doors of the ER, one covered by a sheet, darted through her thoughts, and she averted her gaze to the floor, shaking her head to rid her mind of the image._

_“What did you want to talk about?” Stannis inquired._

_She inhaled, adjusting her posture._

_“I shouldn’t have said those things to you at Renly’s funeral,” she admitted, her eyes meeting his cool, hazel ones. “It was unfair of me to accuse you of... That. Not when it was you who pulled the strings necessary to have him on Seaworth’s unit in the first place. If you hadn’t, he would have been dead much sooner.”_

_To her surprise, Stannis smirked._

_“I would have expected nothing less,” he told her. “Not from you, anyway. Besides, I only made the call to Davos because you tore into me at his graduation. I’m well aware of how rash I can be, but nearly losing Shireen in that fire blinded me to a lot of things. It took your right hook to make me realize that.”_

_She smiled at the memory, though her heart still felt heavy with the words she’d uttered that day._

_“You’d just lost your wife,” she explained softly. “I should have been more—”_

_“What? Understanding? Sympathetic?” he finished for her, raising his eyebrows. “Selyse and I were in the middle of a divorce when the fire happened. I never imagined losing her like that, but it had been a long time since we’d loved each other.” Stannis glanced down the hall to where Shireen was seated at the monitor’s desk. “She was going to fight for full custody solely to hurt me in the press, and she couldn’t even tell you Shireen’s favorite color. No; if anything, I was relieved, and hardly deserving of pity.”_

_The self-directed shame in his tone mixed with the images of his unhappy marriage to weave a tapestry that made Brienne pity him despite his words, so she politely followed his stare. The girl was bent over the article, highlighting some things here and there while occasionally grinning up at Jaime. His laugh echoed over the loudspeaker, and the sound caused Brienne to flush with pride._

_“He means something to you.”_

_Her head whipped to look at Stannis, whose shrewd expression left little for her to argue with._

_“It’s not like that. We—”_

_“You mean more to him, though,” he interrupted, stepping away from the wall and toward his daughter._

_“What are you trying to say?”_

_He stopped with a sigh, peering over his shoulder at her._

_“Just that I would have never run into that burning house to save Selyse. Not when it could have cost me my life.”_

As she passed through the swinging door and sat on the gallery bench between Sansa and Jaime following her testimony, the gentle press of his left leg against her right branded Stannis’s words through her pants and into her thigh.

“Good job,” he praised quietly, his left hand moving to rub her back in comforting circles.

“The prosecution would like to call its next witness...” Kevan hesitated. “Arya Stark.”

Murmurs reverberated through the courtroom as the doors opened and she entered, her short frame all but engulfed by the room around her. She pushed through the swinging door and planted her Converse-clad feet before the judge’s bench, the asymmetrical cut of her cardigan and her high ponytail only amplifying her volatility. Judge Myr smiled at her complacence, gesturing to the courtroom deputy, his own red ponytail swaying over his shoulder.

“Miss Stark, please come forward and be sworn.”

While Arya swore to tell the truth, Brienne studied Baelish. The anesthesiologist, who had seemed disconcertingly confident during her testimony, shriveled in on himself as Arya took her place on the stand; his posture stiffened, and his hands apparently didn’t know they were connected to his body based on how they restlessly transitioned from one position to another.

Perhaps most unnerving was how Sansa scooted more closely to her, seizing her hand.

“Miss Stark, please tell the court your name,” Kevan commenced.

“My name is Arya Stark.”

“And what do you do for a living, Miss Stark?”

The teenager pulled her shoulders back, her face an unreadable mask.

“I’m a freshman at Weirwood Senior High School, and a member of the varsity swim team,” she said calmly. “Coach Forel thinks we might go to nationals this year.”

Kevan chuckled, as did most of the jury.

“So, you must be... What? Fourteen years old?”

Arya nodded.

“Do you know this man?” Kevan questioned, a hand extending toward the defense table.

The girl’s eyes flitted to Baelish, who was nervously staring at her.

“Yes,” she declared. “His name is Petyr Baelish. He’s an anesthesiologist at Baelor Hospital.”

“And how long have you known him?”

Brienne felt Sansa’s fingers squeeze her own even harder.

“As long as I’ve been alive,” Arya confessed, and the jury began to exchange looks, wary of the tranquil tone in her voice. “He was one of my mother’s best friends. I remember him telling her he loved her at a Christmas party three years ago, and she slapped him for it.”

“But she remained friends with him? Despite his behavior?”

“Yes. She was afraid that if she didn’t, he would try to hurt us... To hurt our father.”

The gallery behind them broke into so many conversations that Judge Myr raised his gavel in threat, a hush immediately raging through the room.

“So you know him well,” Kevan reasoned. “Would you say you know him well enough that you believe he would have something to gain from Major Tarth’s death had Mr. Lannister failed to save her?”

“Yes." She turned her gaze to where the three of them were sitting. “I do.”

Kevan shifted his feet.

“And what would that be?” he probed.

Arya’s features hardened.

“My sister.”

In milliseconds, the room morphed into a zoo, filled with gasps and discussions and taunts aimed at the man on trial, yet Brienne was squeezing Sansa’s hand, doing her best not to ogle the girl in shock. Her heart began to beat hard against her sternum, the blood rushing through her ears drowning out the sound of Myr’s gavel.

“Order, order...!” he called out, disinterested in the drama of the situation. “Mr. Lannister, please proceed.”  

When the scandal caused by Arya’s answer subsided, Kevan stepped forward, giving the jury a meaningful glance.

“And why would Dr. Baelish want your sister?”

“I went to the Met Gala with my father two years ago,” the teenager continued. “Dr. Baelish said he was disappointed to see my sister hadn’t come along instead, since she was growing up to be such a beauty... Like our mother.”

If her skin could crawl off her body and skitter through the doors behind her, Brienne couldn’t have been more disgusted. Sansa’s grip was turning her fingers _purple_ it was so tight.

Kevan crossed to the prosecutor’s table, pulling out a small instant photograph and moving to place it on the overhead projector for everyone to see: Someone had managed to capture a candid moment that involved Sansa laughing as Arya smeared a piece of cake across their father’s face. The girl was stunning, wearing a glittery black romper and a tiara on her head.

It would have been a splendid photo, were it not for the way Baelish was so obviously _leering_ at the girl from behind them. The jury visibly shuddered, aghast at what they were seeing, and Brienne couldn’t breathe properly. Sansa was shaking slightly, and when Brienne peeked at her, she saw the teenager was silently crying. Despite the numbness in her fingers, she stroked the back of Sansa’s hand with her thumb.

“Can you tell me at what event this photo was taken?” Kevan inquired.

Arya methodically regarded the photo, then the jury, then Kevan.

“That was Sansa’s fifteenth birthday party last year.”

“And, just so we’re clear, who took this photo?”

She grinned; an empty, alarming thing.

“My little brother, Bran.”

“And did he know about Dr. Baelish’s feelings for your sister?” he pressed.

“No,” she assured him. “None of us knew until that night.”

“And what did your parents do with this information?”

Brienne felt Sansa’s hand relax under her own, but her thoughts were still overwhelming her.

_How could she not have known?_

The pressure behind her eyes was escalating to embarrassing levels when Jaime bumped her right arm. He was giving her a supportive smile, a tissue discreetly held in his left hand. She took it, letting her hand linger in his grip to give him a squeeze in thanks. For the first time in what seemed like hours, she drew a breath, lightly touching the tissue to her cheeks.

“My mother and father took out a restraining order against him.”

“And was Major Tarth made aware of this restraining order following their deaths?” Kevan carried on, deliberately asking the damning question to seal off the defense from asking any of their own.

Even so, Brienne desperately did her best to recall every document she’d signed in Tywin’s office, every conversation she’d had with Cat when she’d been released from the hospital, before the—

“No,” the girl stated simply, looking at Brienne. “She wasn’t. They didn’t tell anyone outside of the family.”

“So, every day that Major Tarth worked alongside this man, she was completely unaware of his interest in Sansa?”

“Yes.”

“And none of you had any idea that he was on her surgical team?” Kevan demanded, seeking to crush his opponent.

“No,” she confirmed. “If we had, we would have told her.”

Kevan bowed his head at the girl, a proud smirk on his face as he turned to acknowledge Judge Myr.

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

Kevan scrutinized the defense table as he returned to his seat, yet Baelish didn’t even notice; his shoulders had slouched over, his hands resting uselessly in his lap. His defense attorney, Mr. Royce, hadn’t seen this coming either, if his gaping mouth was any indication.

“Defense counsel, would you like to cross-examine the witness?” Myr offered.

Royce shook his head in defeat.

“No, Your Honor.”

“Very well, then,” Myr asserted. “Court will now take a fifteen minute recess.” He banged his gavel once, and though she wasn’t sure, Brienne could have sworn she heard Myr mutter, “God knows _I_ need one.”

In the span of a few seconds, Sansa stood and elegantly left the room, her head held high despite the fact that she was obviously suffering. Brienne followed her without delay, ignoring the flashes of cameras and rude requests for answers thrown her way by the reporters at the back of the room.

The door to one of the jury assembly rooms was ajar, and going with her instinct, Brienne snuck inside to see Sansa sitting on the end of the table, her knuckles white from how hard she was gripping its edge. After she’d shut the door, Brienne went to her, standing in front of the teenager as she wrapped her arms around her; it was the only encouragement Sansa needed to clutch her close.

“I’m so sorry,” the young woman moaned into her chest. “I should have told you, but I didn’t think you’d have to—”

“Shh...” she soothed, her own tears spilling over as she closed her eyes. “It’s okay. No one is blaming you for anything.”

Sansa sobbed into her blazer, and Brienne smoothed down her hair as she heard the door creak open again behind them. Over her shoulder, she saw Jaime closing it before he carefully approached them.

“Did _you_ know?” she mouthed noiselessly.

He shook his head, sitting beside Sansa on the table.

“Arya was looking for you,” he murmured. “I guess we found you first, huh?”

The teenager leaned back, tugging her long sleeve over her hand and wiping her nose with it.

“Here.”

Jaime held out a travel pack of tissues to them both, and Sansa took a few, blowing her nose and dabbing her mascara from her cheeks.

“This is all my fault,” she bit out, staring up at Brienne. “He almost _killed_ you. I’m so _stupid_... Just a stupid little girl who lives in a stupid dream world who never learns...” A sniffle broke through her self-inflicted rant, and the sound of it tore Brienne’s heart in two. “If we had—”

“Were you aware that he was her coworker?” Jaime posed.

Sansa turned her red-rimmed eyes to him, astonished.

“No, but I—”

“Then how on earth would you have known to tell her?” He gave Brienne a thoughtful tilt of his head. “Do you blame _her_ for not knowing about the restraining order?”

“Of course not...!” Sansa defended, balling up the tissues in her fist. “It’s not her fault that she didn’t—” Her words stopped short as realization dawned over her features. “Oh...” The teenager sheepishly looked away, a fraction of her sadness melting from her brow. “I didn’t think about it like that.”

“And that’s not your fault either,” he clarified. “You can’t blame yourself for the things you didn’t know. All it earns you in the end is heartache, believe me.” Something in his words had turned subtly melancholic, the way a sunflower’s petals wilt in on themselves. “And don’t you _ever_ blame yourself for his behavior. That’s all on him, okay?”

The teenager nodded.

“Thank you,” she whispered, handing the packet of tissues to Brienne. “Sometimes I can be really slow to understand things.”

“Well, you’re better than me,” Jaime mused, nudging her with his elbow. “I’m _always_ slow.”

Sansa chortled, and in the silence that followed, she exhaled, resting her head on his shoulder as he wrapped an arm around her. Brienne pulled one or two tissues out and wiped the dampness from her cheeks, shoving the packet and dirty tissues into separate pants pockets and sitting on the other side of the girl. While she rubbed Sansa’s back, the young woman reached over and took her other hand, a smile tugging on her lips as her temple stayed on Jaime’s shoulder, and a jolt of electricity struck Brienne to her core, kindling her marrow with a heat she wasn’t sure she’d ever felt before.

“Sansa?”

The uncertain voice belonged to Arya, who bore a grateful expression at having found her sister. She shut the door and approached them all, not even mentioning how Sansa had sought refuge on the shoulder of a man that wasn’t their father; instead, she sat next to Brienne, weaving her arms around her torso as she hid her face in her blazer. Brienne let Sansa’s hand go to pull Arya close, her other hand still doing its best to massage comfort into the traumatized young woman’s back.

As the four of them sat there, connected in their own way to the silence in the room, the anxiety Brienne felt earlier disappeared beneath the wave of love and duty she held for these people. Their strength, their resilience...

A few minutes later, a knock punched through the air, jolting them all as Kevan stuck his head inside the door.

“It’s, uh...” He cleared his throat. “It’s time.”

Arya was the first to move, slipping off the table and standing in front of her sister, a hand outstretched.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked, her eyebrows creeping up her forehead. “We don’t have to go back.”

Sansa considered her sister’s suggestion until she swallowed hard, shaking her head.

“It’s not what I want,” she said plainly, “but I _have_ to be there when they say he’s guilty. I need to see his face.”

A smirk touched Arya’s lips, and her sister took her hand, her feet lowering to the carpeted floor. Sansa followed her out and down the hall with Kevan, leaving Brienne alone with Jaime, who stood with a sigh.

“Are you all right?”

“ _I’m_ not the one having to—”

“Brienne...”

Her eyes met his, the sea-foam green she saw there tugging her under as the fluorescent lights bared her to him. She shrugged against it.

“Not really,” she conceded. “But I will be.”

He nodded, seemingly satisfied, and started for the door—

“Jaime...”

Rather than wait for him to stop and turn, she rose to her feet and walked to him, her arms circling his neck while his held her torso, the security of his grasp mollifying the unease the entire day had caused her. He didn’t say anything when she rested her head at the juncture of his shoulder and his neck, hoping to absorb some of his courage as a hand came to rest firmly on her head.

“Thank you,” she mumbled into his throat, her voice barely audible to her own ears.

She felt the movement in his chest as he took a rattled breath, holding her even more tightly.

“You were all there for me when I needed you most." It was a susurration, one he brushed into the skin of her cheek. “It’s time I returned the favor, don’t you think?”

The rumble of her chuckle ricocheted straight through to her feet, filling her with a sort of contentment.

* * *

Three hours later, after Mr. Royce half-heartedly brought forth his few witnesses for the defense and the jury had returned from their deliberation, the four of them were seated on the bench together again, Brienne sitting between the girls, Jaime on the other side of Sansa.

“Have you reached a verdict?” Judge Myr bade the head juror.

“We have, Your Honor.”

Arya slid her small hand into Brienne’s, startling her with its grip. She could sense Sansa bracing herself for what they were about to hear.

“On the charge of aiding and abetting, we, the jury, find the defendant guilty.”

She peeked at Jaime, whose posture suggested he was listening as intently as they were.

“On the charge of attempted murder in the first degree...” The juror paused, and Sansa’s features contorted in fearful anticipation. “... We, the jury, find the defendant guilty.”

A rush of air roughly escaped Sansa’s lips as her head fell forward, and Brienne pulled her close while the bailiff escorted a struggling, tearful Baelish through the judge’s door and out of sight.  

For the first time in a long time, she prayed, thanking whatever god was listening that her part in all this was over.

* * *

They went by a Thai restaurant and ordered some take-out the moment they left the courthouse, eager to get away, and had just reached Evenfall when Jaime’s phone rang. The longer he spoke to the person, the more his brow creased.

“What do you mean?” he demanded, listening to the other person. The girls gave Brienne an apprehensive look. “That’s... Shit. Well, no... Yeah, yeah, that’s fine. I’ll let them know. It shouldn’t be a problem... Fine, I’ll ask them anyway, if it makes you feel better. Thanks, Ty.”

Before anyone opened their car door, Jaime adjusted himself in the front passenger seat to address them all.

“That was Tyrion. Baelish confessed to the bailiff that he’d done it for Cersei after we left, and he was found dead in his holding cell a few minutes ago." Every mouth fell open in shock. "They originally thought it might be suicide, but now...”

Terror hit her in one fell swoop as she realized what he was implying.

“Cersei...” Sansa alleged, bringing the name that hung heavily in their collective mind to light. “It could only be Cersei. He was charged for doing _her_ dirty work, and her trial starts tomorrow.”

Jaime swallowed hard, focusing on the console.

“My father has ordered 24-hour surveillance for all of us, even Tyrion,” he told them. “He’s already called the headmaster of your school, and he wanted to let you know so you could make other plans for the—”

“You mean _none_ of us can go to school?” Arya blurted. “I’ve got a swim meet on Thursday!”

When Jaime’s gaze met hers in a plea for help, Brienne took the hint.

“Your safety is more important,” she reinforced, “and it’s not as easy to monitor you if you’re in a crowd.”

The teenager rolled her eyes in indignation, crossing her arms against her chest and leaning back in her seat with a huff.

“What about your jobs?” Sansa inquired.

He shook his head.

“We won’t be working until her trial is over,” Jaime confirmed. “My father thinks that it might be safer for me and Tyrion to stay here with you, so we’re all in one place, but Tyrion’s leaving that up to—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Arya accused immediately, grabbing a brown paper bag of Thai food and reaching for her door handle. “If we’re going to be under house arrest because of _your_ sister, the least you can do is try to entertain us.”

Arya got out and closed the door, whereas Sansa just smiled, taking the other bag and climbing out herself. Brienne watched them as they made their way up the porch steps, taken aback at how easily they had decided on the issue.

“I won’t be able to go to AA tomorrow,” Jaime recognized out loud. “This will be the third week I’ve missed in the last month. My counselor—”

“It’s okay,” she interrupted, glancing at him. “They know it’s not your fault. We can plan on next time.”

His mouth opened a little, like he wanted to say something. Seconds later, however, his lips formed a thin line and he nodded.

After he called Tyrion, telling him to bring him a suitcase full of his things too, they went inside to find the kids had gotten everything ready for dinner, and Selwyn pulled them both into hugs.

“They told me everything,” he explained, stepping away from Jaime and patting his shoulder. “Maybe someday you’ll be able to stay the night without the duress of dire circumstances.”

Her cheeks grew hot at her father’s comment, so she busied herself with piling food on her plate, trying not to picture the day that might happen.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events of this chapter (and the next one) were inspired by 'Colors' by Halsey. LOVE HER. WOULD HAVE HER BABIES. 
> 
> It's not explicitly mentioned because he didn't live long enough to receive his sentence, but Baelish would have received life imprisonment *with* the possibility of parole, however he would have been listed as a registered sex offender for the rest of his life. BOOM! And yes, Thoros is a judge. I have further plans for him in future chapters... ;)
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me, and I'm looking forward to finishing the next chapter for you all! Lots o' fluff ahead, babes! Kudos, comments, and bookmarks are welcome!


	14. Covered in the Colors - Brienne VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lannister brothers' stay at Evenfall culminates in a way Brienne never expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's long, it's fluffy at first, and it's got lions and wolves and... Tension. Oh my!
> 
> I hope you enjoy it, because the chances of you getting another chapter this lengthy are *particularly* slim.

“I _hate_ Mondays,” Jaime complained later that night, sitting up and rubbing his beard.

They’d just finished watching ‘A Knight’s Tale’ on her bed in exactly the same fashion that they’d started ‘A League of Their Own’ the previous month. Tyrion had made himself at home upstairs in the guest room, and Jaime had determined that he would be sleeping on the couch for the duration of their stay.

And yet, here he was, in her bed again.

“I’m sorry you have to stay here.”

He shrugged, picking up the laptop and walking to her desk.

“I don’t mind it,” he declared. “To be honest, I’d rather not be at the apartment. Not when it could put the people I care about in danger.”

She frowned, trying to ignore the implication that he might—

“And what about Cersei?”  

The charger had been plugged into its port, but he kept his back to her.

“She’s my sister,” he professed. “My  _twin._ I knew her before I knew anything of the world, and somehow I can’t even remember the last time there was any sort of connection between us.” He turned to face her then, his sea-foam eyes devoid of their usual light and color. “It’s like looking in an old, familiar mirror, but instead of a reflection, there’s this _stranger_ staring back at me through the cracks.”

Jesus. To feel so much guilt over the actions of someone you once loved, over the emotions they drove you to experience...

“I’m sorry, Jaime,” she said, meaning it.

He sat in her desk chair, straddling it as he did so and wrapping his arms over the back of it like a lover.

“It’s not your fault,” he continued, “or mine. Robert wasn’t a kind man, and she drank to cope with it. After Tommen was born, she developed severe post-partum depression. Robert didn’t care. He dragged her to every town in Virginia, every church service, just so the public would see her pretty face beside his own.”

There was a gentle jealousy in his tone that she hadn’t expected; of course, when she recalled the way he’d held Myrcella’s hand prior to her operation, she could understand where it had come from.

“Cersei begged me to tour with them, if only to help with the kids, but things had finally calmed down after the Aerys situation. Patients were beginning to request me as their surgeon... I _couldn’t_ go with them. So she kept drinking off-camera, and Robert got reelected to the Senate.”

He paused, obviously visiting the memory in his mind as he picked at his fingernails.

“Joffrey broke his leg during seventh grade, and his doctor prescribed oxy for the pain. One thing led to another, and suddenly Cersei was inventing all sorts of health issues to get her hands on it. When every pharmacy in D.C. noticed a pattern, she found... Less conventional routes to get what she needed. Soon, she was the queen of her own empire. Nothing else mattered to her anymore.”

She couldn’t restrain the pity that poured over her, so the moment he looked at her, she bit her bottom lip to hide it.

“And when you realized that she...” How could she form those words in front of him? “I mean, what did you do?”

He ruefully smirked at her.

“I started drinking.”

 _“You can’t blame yourself for the things you didn’t know. All it earns you in the end is heartache, believe me... And don’t you_ ever _blame yourself for his behavior. That’s all on him, okay?”_

“That’s how you knew what to say to her,” she understood. “To Sansa.”

He nodded.

“Accepting the things you can’t change was the hardest lesson for me to learn. It’s easier said than done, but the only way to see the good in it is to do it anyway.”

An undemanding silence settled over them, so she pulled back the comforter, sliding beneath it and settling in.

“Why did you call Stannis?”

She rolled over onto her side to see him cocking an eyebrow at her expectantly, so she sighed.

“It’s a long story—”

“And we’ve got nowhere to be in the morning.”

He’d willingly shared so much of himself with her in the last month; she supposed it _was_  her turn.

“When Renly came out during his last year of medical school, his family disowned him. He’d already been dating Loras in secret for four years, so Olenna insisted that they get married, that way he’d have a home, money for school...” A smile tugged on her cheeks. “That’s how we met. I stayed with Margaery and Loras the summer before our senior year of undergrad, and he... He was kind to me.”

“So, you _did_ like him.”

“Maybe I did, at first,” she mused. “It didn’t stay that way, though. I met—I met someone not long after that. Renly told me he didn’t think this guy was good enough for me, we got in a fight, and in the end, he became my other best friend.” She recollected _that_ shouting match; his frustration, her foolishness... “Of course, I still didn’t listen.”

“You never do,” Jaime teased, and she scowled at him. “Did he enlist with you?”

She shook her head.

“I enlisted right out of senior high. Renly didn’t enlist until Christmas break during our last year at med school. He said he’d wasted his life, and that nobody would hire him to work as a physician because of the slander his family put him through. I begged him not to do it.”

What followed was seared into her mind, along with the day that Renly had—

“Stannis came to graduation, alone. The fire had only happened the week before, and Shireen was still in the ICU, but I was blinded by my own pain. He congratulated Renly on his enlistment, and asked him about his deployment...”

“I’m assuming you didn’t take that as lightly as it was intended.”

Chuckling, she pulled herself up onto her elbow, resting her head on her hand.

“No, I didn’t. I, uh... I punched him.”

A laugh bubbled up and out of Jaime then, filling her room with its rare splendor.

“What did he do about that?”

“He called around and found out we were training for the summer to be deployed that fall for our residencies, and he pulled some strings so we could both serve under his friend, Lt. Col. Davos Seaworth.” Perhaps she should try to get in touch with him as well; it had been too long since she’d heard his gruff, warm voice provoking her to smile. “I knew Stannis had been the one to arrange everything, but I didn’t know until the day he brought Shireen to the hospital that he only made the call because I punched him.”

“That still doesn’t tell me why _you_ called _him_...” Jaime pried, his eyes narrowing.

Images of dew-strewn grass, the smell of autumn rain, and the sight of the violently brown hole burrowing into the earth danced with her emotions. She cleared her throat.

“Stannis came to the funeral, and I was...” A pause. “I said things I shouldn’t have. I wanted to apologize for it. For all of it.”

“Why?”

His expression of genuine concern made her uncomfortable.

“Because of you,” she murmured.

The concern she’d seen was replaced by astonishment.

“I don’t under—”

“I listened to you and Bran on the swing that night,” she revealed. “Seeing the two of you after that... I realized how harsh I’d been. And with Selyse and his brothers gone...”

“You wanted him to know he wasn’t alone.”

She nodded.

“He may be a miserable son of a bitch, but everyone feels pain.” She plucked at a thread on her comforter that had freed itself from the confines of the hem. “Especially the people who know how to hide it.”

Stillness swept through the room at her comment, and she couldn’t bring herself to look at him, afraid she’d see sympathy worming its way across his irritatingly handsome face. 

“So, you told him to come to the _biocontainment_ unit?” he questioned. “That’s an odd place to—”

“I left a voicemail and told him where I’d be, and I knew Shireen would probably want to see you too, since you’re family.” She smoothed out the creases in the fabric she’d disturbed. “She doesn’t have much of that left.”

When she peeked at him, the smooth space above his nose had crinkled, and she huffed.

“Renly and I would watch her off and on every summer during med school,” she confessed. “Well, when he was still on speaking terms with them, anyway.”

“And to think, if I had spent more time with my family and less time at work, we might have crossed paths years ago,” he thought out loud. “Good thing it didn’t happen that way.”

She could feel her forehead screw up, puzzled by his statement.

“Before I started drinking, my entire world was Cersei,” he elaborated, “and I did a lot of things I’m not proud of for her. You would have hated me.”

“I’m sure that’s not—”

“I was an _asshole_ , Brienne,” he cut in. “I doubt I’d have even given you a second glance.”

“You still didn’t. Remember?”

Easing her head down onto her pillow, her eyes remained fixed on him as he sat there, confused.

“‘Is that a _woman_?’” she quoted, and he blanched.

“I shouldn’t have—”

“Please, it’s not like you’re the first person to ever say it,” she assured him, snuggling into her sheets. “I’m used to it.”

“That doesn’t excuse it,” he said pointedly. “I’m sorry for how I acted that day. You didn’t deserve it.”

His sincerity took her aback, so she nodded, effectively ending the conversation. He stood with a groan, pushing the chair under her desk.

“You should get some sleep,” he suggested, moving toward the door. “It’s been a long day.”

Later, she couldn’t tell if it was the idea of him sleeping alone on her couch, or the idea of not sleeping beside him, but—

“You can sleep here, you know,” she blurted, and his hand let go of the doorknob. “With me.”

He spun around, a smile peeking out at her.

“And what would the kids say if they found us like that?”

She scoffed.

“Sandor and I would share the guest bed if he stayed late when I was babysitting them,” she divulged. “I doubt they’d think anything of it.”

His smile thawed into a grin, and within moments, he’d stripped off his shirt and laid down next to her, turning off the lamp. She was on the slope of a dream when—

“I did take a second glance, you know. You were...” He yawned. “You were on the news, you and the kids, and I kept the channel where it was to get a better look at you.” His voice lowered to a whisper. “That’s how I knew your eyes were blue.”

Rather than attempt to fully answer, she mumbled, “That’s nice,” took his hand in her own, and fell asleep immediately.

* * *

It stayed that way for close to two weeks; Tywin would have groceries sent to them, and Friday night dinners were postponed. Tyrion griped about not being able to see Shae until Sansa broke down during dinner one night and reminded him that he had an iPhone and could FaceTime her, to which he’d retorted with, “FaceTime doesn’t work for _everything_ , my dear.” The ‘ews’ of revulsion clattered against the walls, and though Brienne was a little irked with him for sharing something so unsuitable for his environment, she had to stifle a laugh herself at the comment.

Bran was more than glad to spend his confinement sitting on the couch, engrossed in his books, but the girls were more difficult to appease. Netflix lost its charm in seven days, so the schoolwork their teachers consistently e-mailed them actually became a welcome source of distraction. More than once, Brienne heard Arya say she would never complain about homework again, and Sansa, who absolutely _loathed_ physical education, admitted to missing the freedom of throwing and hitting balls as hard as she liked around the school gymnasium.

Brienne yearned for the purpose her job gave her, and she especially wished she could see her team. Dr. Payne was acting as Chief of Surgery in her absence, and he occasionally called to run a decision by her, or to seek her advice on a procedure he’d scheduled the following day. Gilly called to check in on her, and texted her photos of her first trimester ultrasound, saying that it would be another boy; the thought of her having a baby in six months made Brienne so glad for the young woman, and yet something nagged at her heart, the way it had when Jaime had consoled Sansa during Baelish’s trial.

She pushed the feeling away, busying herself with cleaning, preparing food, and cooking, since there was an overwhelming amount of it with seven people living in the house. Her father and Jaime would shoo her away now and then, telling her to go watch television with the kids, or help them with their homework, and she never fought them on it, enjoying the time she was able to spend with her soon-to-be-legal family. She’d eavesdrop on the two men as they shuffled around one another in the kitchen, and admired how easily Jaime got her father to laugh; not that it was a difficult task, but the fact that the sounds were always so genuine and boisterous was a phenomenon worthy of investigation at NASA. 

Sleeping in the same bed as Jaime was a literal dream; her own nightmares never bothered her, and now and then she’d wake up to feel him rubbing her back through her shirt in his sleep, a gesture that lulled her into the sweetness of unconsciousness once more. Every night, they would browse Netflix, and afterward they would hold hands until they fell asleep, anchoring each other. Sometimes, she’d doze in the middle of whatever they were watching, and he’d put the laptop away and take _her_ hand when he climbed under the covers. He always thought she was asleep, so maybe he didn’t think she’d notice.

But she did. Every time. And it was her favorite part of the day.

* * *

On day sixteen, Tywin informed them that only the slightest progress had been made in determining Cersei’s guilt, and that the brothers would likely have to stay for a while longer. Tyrion was visibly disturbed by this news, going upstairs to ‘drown his sorrows in a book’; Jaime, however, hid his emotions from all of them, hesitating for only a moment before he continued to fill the dishwasher. Brienne had no idea why she wanted to know what he was thinking and feeling about the situation, since it was really none of her business.

That night, she got her wish anyway.  

A voice could be heard in her bedroom, its low tones startling her awake in seconds. She believed it to be an intruder until she rolled over to see Jaime’s face contorting into an amalgamation of emotions in his sleep instead. Anger, then sadness, then pain...

The words became more audible when fear developed and stayed there.

“Not them... Cersei, no...”

He was crying now, and the sight of it tore something deep within her, letting the torrid unknown rush inside in multitudes.

“I’ll do anything... _Please..._ ”

His body wracked with a sob, and it was all she could stand; she cupped his head, her thumbs smearing away his tears as they fell.

“Jaime...?”

He didn’t wake, whining out a ‘no’ as more tears escaped from under his closed lids, so she used one hand to firmly shake his arm.

“Jaime, wake up.”

His eyes opened then, and when they focused on her, he exhaled harshly, reaching up to touch her features in doubt.

“Are you okay?” he rasped.

“Am _I_ okay?” she repeated, bewildered. “Jaime...”

He swallowed hard, rolling over to put his back to her, though from embarrassment or shock, she wasn’t sure. Using the same technique he used on her in his sleep, she gingerly reached out and stroked his bare back, the stiff muscles gradually relaxing under her fingertips and palms when she applied more pressure. It didn’t take long for his soft, cool skin to borrow warmth from her touch, and he sighed after a few more minutes of it, rolling back over to stare at her.

“Thank you.”

The suspicion remained, like he couldn’t quite believe she was there... Or he was here.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Silence, then—

“I dreamed of you.” He sniffed. “You and the kids. She was... She was going to hurt them, and we stopped her. So she...” His gaze fell to her pillow. “She hurt you instead, and I couldn’t do anything.”

_Oh._

“Say something...”

It was the foundation of a religion, the way he was studying her; like she might float through her window and into the clouds high, high above them while he would be dragged into the depths of hell, bypassing any and all circles on his journey to its core. She’d never seen a man look so devastated.

Her fingertips rose to his beard, caressing the gray-speckled mess with her knuckles and tucking his hair behind his ear, all while searching for what to say.

“I’m not going anywhere.” A rush of air left him as she pressed her whole hand to his cheek, and he shut his eyes, covering her hand with his own. “Do you believe me?”

A few steadying breaths later, he nodded, those vast green seas alight again. He bent his head forward to rest on the base of her neck, and her arms went around him of their own accord, pulling him over and onto her shoulder.

Thus begun the unanticipated trend of falling asleep holding hands _and_ waking up intertwined. It started out as a way to keep nightmares at bay, yet it summarily evolved into a habit. That was how she discovered that, despite the fact that he was her friend, his erection jutting into her hip bone first thing in the morning when she woke up made her body (more specifically, her _lower_ body) react in ways she considered highly inappropriate for a friendship.

One morning, about a week later, Arya had burst into her bedroom, a plate of pancakes in her hand. When she saw Jaime fast asleep beside her, his leg thrown over hers, his head nestled against her shoulder and his arm across her waist, the teenager gave Brienne a knowing smile, and she could have sworn she flushed as red as the strawberries on the plate the girl was holding.

“We were _going_ to bring you breakfast in bed...”

Even from where Arya stood, Brienne could smell the heavenly aroma of freshly cut fruit, and her mouth watered, but the unrelenting hardness digging into her pelvis told her that Jaime would need a few minutes, so she shook him awake with the arm she had sleepily draped around him at some point.

“...Mmm. Whaizih?” he grumbled, burrowing his head into her shoulder.

“The kids fixed us breakfast.”

He pulled his head back far enough to see Arya standing in the room, and he muttered something about how he’d just gotten comfortable as he scooted away from her so she could sit up on the edge of the bed. The teenager merely rolled her eyes at them.

“We’ll be in the kitchen,” she announced, leaving the room and closing the door behind her.

He didn’t move, so Brienne got out of bed, pulling a hoodie on over her tank top in lieu of wearing a bra. Then—

“Wait. Was that Arya?” he asked groggily, his worry stirring the room. “Did she... Was I...?”

She could only shake her head at his endearing disorientation as she headed for the bathroom, the door not completely latching behind her; after everything they’d shared up to this point, it seemed silly to fret about an inch or two of open space.

* * *

Of course, the peace didn’t last; during breakfast, Jaime’s phone rang. He stepped out of the room to answer it, and when he returned, Bran noticed his uncertainty.

“Something’s happened, hasn’t it?” he inquired.

Jaime nodded. Tyrion’s eyebrows gathered in trepidation, and the girls stood closer to Selwyn, who wrapped an arm around them both.

“That was Uncle Kevan,” Jaime began. “She’s decided to testify. Today. He, uh...” His hand combed his hair back as he sheepishly looked at her. “He wants the three of us to be there as soon as possible.”

Tyrion bowed his head, instantly heading for the stairs, and the children zoomed about the dining room, clearing away plates and cleaning up, but Brienne couldn’t move.

She was through with it. It wasn’t something she was supposed to be a part of anymore, and yet here she was, expected to sit in the same room as the woman who’d hurt or threatened the people she’d come to care the most about; the woman who had wanted her dead only a month ago.   

“Brienne?” a troubled voice broke through, and she turned to see her father standing behind her. “You all right, starlight?”

“I’ll be fine,” she managed to say. “I’m calling Sandor, though. I’d feel better about leaving you alone if he was here.”

Selwyn nodded, saying nothing else about it. She crossed the living room and went into her room to change, and once she closed the door, some of her unease ebbed away at the sight of her blue pantsuit against the white comforter; the same one she’d worn to the funeral.

Jaime was buttoning a crimson shirt over his white tee while he sat on his side of the bed, his pants and shoes already on. He smiled when he saw her looking at the suit he’d gotten out of her closet.

“It goes well with your eyes,” he explained. “If Kevan wants our presence to pressure her into a confession, that suit is our best bet.”

He stood, grabbing his wallet from the nightstand and putting it in his back pocket as he opened the door.

“We’ll be outside.”

Once he’d gone, she unlocked her cell phone and selected Sandor’s phone number, touching the speakerphone option on the screen and tossing the device on her bed. As his phone rang, she picked up the suit and held it in line with her body in the mirror on her wall, trying to see what Jaime said he did.

* * *

The moment they arrived at the courthouse, the sleek black car Tywin had sent for them was besieged with reporters and photographers, and she choked on her panic until Jaime took her hand in his and squeezed it, opening their door.

They slid out of the back seat and into plain view, the flashes of the paparazzi’s cameras so bright she was forced to keep her face down, and Jaime maintained his grip on her hand as they navigated the sea of vipers, the miasma their noxious presence created bearing down on them. She silently chastised herself for choosing to wear her hair in a French braid that revealed so much of her unusual features; no doubt the entire country would trace over her lips on every tabloid cover with a Sharpie mustache.

The courthouse lobby was quieter, free of rude questions and scrutiny, and as soon as she stepped inside Tywin appeared, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and tearing her away from Jaime. He escorted her to a secluded corner—

“You’ll have to wear this,” he commanded, holding out a petite, golden necklace. “Turn around.”

Too stunned by the day’s events to even argue, she spun in her flats, and Tywin smoothed her braided hair over one shoulder, fastening the delicate chain around her neck. She lifted the pendant and examined it once the cool metal brushed against her chest; an open filigree lion’s head, less than an inch in length, was perched between her fingers, its emerald eyes sparkling up at her. It was something she recognized, she knew, but in her nervous state she couldn’t recall where.

Tywin pulled her braid back to where it had been, releasing a ‘hmm’. Seconds later, he was removing the elastic that held it in place and meticulously unthreading it with his fingers, tying back the highest portion of the braid so that most of her hair hung down in tresses. He was surprisingly gentle, even as he tugged bits and pieces of it, wiggling the elastic a bit to loosen the unyielding chain she’d created. When he moved to stand in front of her, determining the success of his handiwork, he inhaled slowly, his usually sharp green eyes clouding with an emotion she hadn’t seen before. As swiftly as it appeared, it was gone, and he smirked in approval.

“That should do,” he proclaimed. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you what is at stake...?”

She shook her head.

“Good.” He grasped her arms. “They’re probably waiting for us, so listen carefully.” He tugged her forward slightly to murmur in her ear. “She knows you’re here. Stay close, sit between them both, and do not attempt to leave the room without one of us with you. If, for any reason, you find yourself alone, return to the courtroom gallery _immediately_ , that way Kevan can keep an eye on you. Trust no one outside of the four of us, do you understand?”

Breathless with his urgency, she nodded, taking the arm he offered her and allowing him to lead her to the double doors that security opened for them. The moment Cersei saw them emerge from the border of photographers and reporters together, the woman’s innocuous expression melted into barely contained rage.

“The prosecution would like to call its final witness,” Kevan crooned, “Tywin Lannister.”

He untangled her arm from his, placing one hand on her lower back and holding out his other to the bench where Jaime and Tyrion were seated. She did as she’d been instructed as Tywin was sworn in, sitting between the two brothers, her hand automatically searching for Jaime’s beside her. When she couldn’t find it, she looked over to see him staring at her, his lips parted in awe.

“What?” she growled, the pressure of the situation into which she’d been inserted beginning to mount.  

Jaime didn’t say anything. He just smiled at her, like nothing in the world could possibly be wrong, and took her hand in his own.

Tywin’s testimony condemned his daughter far better than anyone else’s ever could; he’d known her all her life. Every report card, every psychological assessment that had been made when his wife had passed, every time he’d paid the presses for their discretion when she’d been caught participating in her more illicit activities and hobbies... There was a paper trail that went on for _miles._ Decades, even.

But every time Brienne glanced at the defense table to observe Cersei’s reactions, she wasn’t listening to her father; she was glaring at _her_. At some point, Jaime must have noticed, because he started stroking her knuckles with his thumb to settle her. Before long, his touch had done well to distract her from the fury broiling across the room, leaving little traces of oversensitive skin in its wake.

The defense counsel continually attempted to object, and Judge Myr overruled them every time; Tywin was far too precise with his words for any of their pitiful objections to be sustained.

About an hour later, when his testimony was through and the defense had refused cross-examination, the court took a brief recess, and rather than stay in the same room as the woman who so clearly despised her, Brienne stood, and Jaime automatically rose to his feet.

“I’ll take her,” Tyrion said, scooting his short legs forward off the bench and extending a hand. “I could use some air myself.”

She gratefully took Tyrion’s hand in her left, and Jaime released her right, reverently guiding her wavy hair over her shoulders and down her back. Her breath unconsciously caught in her throat at his tenderness.

“Stay safe.”

Tyrion accompanied her out of the crowded courtroom and into a cozy, enclosed garden at the very back of the courthouse. She sank into one of the chairs by the fountain, her fingers fiddling with the pendant of the necklace she wore while Tyrion paced. After a few minutes, he moved to stand in front of her and took her hands away from their mindless meddling, his small stature still unable to break even with her seated height.

“I am sorry for today,” he told her. “More than you know. You don’t have our name, and I’d never wish it on you...” He squeezed her fingers like they were some fragile thing, despite the fact that they were twice as long as his own and very unlikely to snap if he gave it his all. “But, I want you to know that no matter what happens, your protection is our prior—”

“I don’t need protecting,” she interrupted.

He smirked.

“And don’t we know it.” Tyrion let go of her fingers, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Nonetheless, it would seem you’ve become as good as family to us, and by extension, so have the children... And _they_ need protection, don’t they?”

“Only because of the arrangement,” she groused, her nerves finally getting the better of her. “Your father certainly doesn’t care about them. He doesn’t care about _me._ All he cares about is putting your sister behind bars so he can safely plant his next presidential candidate in the Oval Office three years from now.”

Tyrion’s hazel eyes lowered to the necklace she wore, their tiredness waxing somber.

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

“Tyrion,” Tywin’s voice purred from the doorway. “Perhaps you’d like to use the restroom on your way back. I’ll escort Major Tarth.”

The short man deliberately bowed his head at her and stepped around where she was seated, leaving her alone with Tywin. She could hear him approaching, the heels of his dress shoes tapping against the floor.

“Would caring about you make a difference in this situation?” he bluntly asked when he stopped beside her.

She didn’t respond, her mind restlessly going over the adoption papers that had yet to be finalized. When he understood that she hadn’t meant to answer him, he tugged a chair over to sit in front of her, its feet screeching its way across the marble in protest.

“You’re right,” he confirmed. “I don’t care about you. And no, it doesn’t make you special; I can hardly bring myself to care about my own children, much less respect them.” His old, weathered fingers clasped together as he brought one leg over the other. “But I _do_ respect _you_.”

Her eyes flew to his, and she saw the miracle of a genuine smile there.

“You’re stubborn,” he continued, “even ruthless, when necessary. You take risks, and you’re not afraid to ask offensive questions. You value your family above all else, and you’re willing to do anything to protect them...” His gaze fell to his hands, and the smile faded. “You’re more like us than you realize, major. The world has simply gifted _you_ with the fierce heart all but one of us lacked.”

He must have meant Jaime, and it riled her that he’d use the past tense; Jaime’s heart, its resilience, its purity... How could this man, his own father, truly believe that his son had lost every part of himself to the disease that had simmered beneath the surface for five years...?

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” she challenged.

Tywin chuckled.

“No,” he replied, rising to his feet. “But it should assure you that, if she confesses today, there is no request you would make that I’d refuse. Not when the debt I owe you has accumulated to such exorbitant levels.”

He held out his hand, a bridge between the two of them, and she begrudgingly accepted it, her stomach churning with nausea. She was sick of the ceremony and the lies. All she wanted to do was go home, eat dinner with the kids and her father, and fall asleep watching another movie with Jaime.  

_Jaime._

As they had earlier, Tywin brought Brienne into the courtroom on his arm. Cersei was, quite predictably, seething in her general direction, but she ignored it, searching until she found the back of his head. He was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands covering his face, and he didn’t even notice her return until she sat beside him, her hand instinctively going to his back as Tywin took the space on her other side.

“You okay...?”

He smeared his hair back from where it had veiled his eyes, and for the first time since the night they’d lost Myrcella, she saw hopelessness there, sprinkled with a guilty desire.

“I’ve only been to one meeting in the last seven weeks,” he reiterated. “I have to go. I _need_ to go. This is...” The rush of his sigh kissed her collarbone. “It’s too much. I can’t—”

“Then we’ll go next week,” she stated, her hand moving in slow circles to soothe him. “Together.”

He nodded in agreement, and Tyrion rejoined them a short while later, hoisting himself onto the bench alongside Tywin and pocketing his phone just as Judge Myr called Cersei to the stand. Kevan careened his head from the prosecutor’s table to be sure the three of them were there, and he smiled, seemingly pleased.

Despite any oaths she swore, every word out of the woman’s mouth was a lie. For nearly thirty minutes, she wrought her personal tale of woe, switching the story around to make herself the victim, even going so far as to shed a few tears. When probed about her addiction and the oxy ring she’d created, her reason for doing so was the protection of her ‘family’; she refused to admit that she enjoyed it, or had returned to it after detox and proper supportive therapy as Jaime had recounted. Instead, she blamed it all on _Joffrey_ , saying the child had developed an affinity for the opioid, and she didn’t know how else to help him.

Brienne would never feel sympathy for the dead teenager, not after what he’d done to Sansa... But his mother lying about him as his ashes rested in the ground was _wrong._ It was _cruel_.

After her research in the first month she’d worked with Jaime, she’d learned that addiction itself wasn’t the need for the substance; it was the choices people made that were _driven_ by that need. The practical side of her research said that support and understanding were crucial to the recovery process, and yet she was witnessing the perfect example of someone who had been so broken, so bitter, that she didn’t even want to fight for it anymore. She didn’t _want_ to recover.

And at that realization, something hidden away, a belief Brienne never knew she held, shattered like ice, chilling through to her bones and expelling itself in tears, because she didn’t want to see it. To know that someone had been given the best chance, to have every possible resource laid at their feet... And to see that person brush it all away, because they didn’t want it anymore.

Because they didn’t see anything worth fighting for.

Brienne felt Jaime take her hand in both his own, and her damp eyes desperately searched his for the answer he could never give. How had he managed to make it this far? Was Tyrion all he’d had for the first year? And Edd?

If only she’d known him sooner. She should have—

Without warning, he tipped her head down with one hand and grazed her forehead with his lips, hushing every anxious thought, each what-if purging itself as her world became nothing but his arm pulling her closer, his cheek resting against her hair.

A tissue was placed in her free hand, and she traced the source to Tywin, who was staring at them, a shrewd smirk on his face.

“Of course, I wish I’d been there,” Cersei hissed at Kevan, who had begun to cross-examine her, the People Magazine with the funeral cover story blown up on the projector screen. “They were my children. It wasn’t right that I couldn’t be there, and _she_ could.”

Kevan knitted his brows.

“Were you aware that Major Tarth was the one who operated on your daughter...?” he tested her. The woman’s nostrils flared. “That she performed the surgery that would have saved her life, were it not for the clot that took it?”

Brienne closed her eyes, exhaling onto her best friend’s neck, and Jaime’s grip on her upper arm tightened.

“No, I wasn’t,” Cersei answered darkly. “I didn't mean for them to get hurt too, but I’d have rather let my children die than let that hideous bitch touch them.”

Absolute silence warped the room onto its head, and Brienne’s eyes tore open, her head raising itself from Jaime’s shoulder to see the disbelief on Cersei’s beautiful features. The bailiff glanced at Judge Myr, who literally grinned and shrugged as the courtroom full of reporters began shouting questions at the woman who had self-confessed. He banged his gavel once.

“Bailiff, take the defendant into custody where she will be charged with the assassination of President Robert Baratheon, as well as the manslaughter of both Tommen and Myrcella Baratheon.”

Tywin stood and stepped into the aisle, his hands in his pockets, watching them take his daughter away as she struggled, pleading with him to save her. Tyrion scooted off the bench and went straight to Brienne, wrapping his arms around her waist as she openly gaped over what had just happened.

“Brienne...” Jaime whispered against her ear, turning in his seat and encircling her in his arms and Tyrion’s own grip adjusted.

She draped an arm around each brother, hoping she was supporting them as much as they’d supported her.

* * *

One last visit. That’s what Tywin had said.

She stood outside the door to the room with the holding cell, listening intently to what they were all saying. Tyrion attempted to tell Cersei that he’d loved those children, and he was sorry for so many things... That he loved her.

“Get out,” she snarled. “I never want to see you again.”

“Cersei, I—”

“Get. _Out._ ”

A moment later, the bailiff opened the door, and Tyrion stepped out, taking her hand and squeezing it tenderly before walking down the hall to the lobby.

“She’s outside, isn’t she?” the woman sneered. “You might as well let her in. She can hear everything, anyway.”

The door opened again, except this time Tywin appeared, extending a hand to invite her inside.

“Ah, there she is,” Cersei jeered, a sarcastic smile on her face. “God, she really is uglier than sin itself, isn’t she? Certainly not worthy enough to wear my mother’s necklace.”

And then she remembered: That very first day, she had taken a minute to look at the portrait of Joanna that hung in Tywin’s office, and the woman had been painted wearing a necklace.

The same one Tywin himself had fastened around her neck.

 _“You’re more like us than you realize, major. The world has simply gifted_ you _with the fierce heart all but one of us lacked.”_

With sudden clarity, she realized Tywin hadn’t been speaking of Jaime at all; he’d been thinking of his wife.

“Oh, look. The beast even _blushes_ like an innocent virgin.” Cersei bared her teeth in a feral grin. “I bet you’ve never had anyone, based on the way my brothers look at you. Tell me, do you have a cunt between your legs, or a—”

“Enough!” Tywin boomed, his voice ricocheting through the air, startling them all as he placed his body between the two women. “She is more worthy of the Lannister name than you have ever or will ever be. And don’t you _dare_ mention your mother in my presence. You have put her devotion and grace to _shame_ , and I don’t doubt that if she were here with us—”

“If she were here, I wouldn’t be,” Cersei grated, honest tears welling in her emerald orbs. “If you had been there—”

“Goodbye, Cersei,” Tywin said with finality.

And just like that, her father went through the door and out of sight.

The stillness that followed rippled through them all, and Brienne felt the burning weight of the pendant on her chest as Cersei’s tears spilled over.

“This won’t be the last you hear of me, Jaime. You or your pet.”

“Maybe not,” he conceded, “but it _will_ be the last time you see me.” His feet brought him closer to the cell. “You get to see that I’m _happy_. That we’re _all_ happy.”

“That’s not true,” the woman accused, shaking her head, her tears still falling. “You’re only happy because I’m _here_ , in this—”

“No, Cersei. I may be happy, but it has nothing to do with my sister facing life imprisonment.”

Cersei was stricken dumb for a second, and rather than wait for a reply, he moved away from her, his arm snaking around Brienne’s waist as he coolly led her out the door and down the hallway.

He did his best to shield them both from the photographers outside as they made their way to the town car waiting for them. The ride was silent, and Jaime still had her pressed against his side, his arm around her when they got home.

What they hadn’t expected was to see Tywin prowling her porch in the moonlight.

“I’ll take care of it,” she told Jaime. “You’re welcome to stay the night. I know it’s late.”

He nodded in assent, climbing the stairs and going inside as she sat on the swing, her fingers tucked beneath her legs.

“I believe I said I owed you a debt...” Tywin mused.

A thought, fully-fledged and daring, spread across her face, and it felt like sunshine.

“Wait here.”

She sprung off the swing and hurried inside to her bedroom, waving off Sansa’s mystified stare and her father’s comment about how she wasn’t going anywhere, was she? When she located what she’d been hunting, she went back outside and handed the stack of adoption papers to him.

“No red tape, no gimmicks,” she demanded. “I want them finalized in time for Christmas.”

His eyes narrowed in skepticism, only to relent under her own penetrating gaze.

“Consider it done.”

He rolled the papers up into his hands, and his emerald eyes glinted with the same spark she’d seen after he’d fixed her hair, falling to the necklace she’d worn most of the day.

“You should keep it,” he said, heading toward the topmost step. “It suits you.”

“I’m not—”

“A Lannister?” he concluded. “Please. My wife was a firm believer that family isn’t always defined by blood, and you seem to be equally as obsessed with the idea.”

The sound of Jaime’s laugh mingled with Bran’s and Sandor’s pummeled her front door, as did the dissonance of a crash that propelled everyone into obvious peals of the stuff. She felt drawn to the ruckus, not because something might be broken, but because they were hers; they were _happy_ , and she wanted to be there with them.

Her fingers lifted the pendant, and she smiled at Tywin.

“I’ll hold onto it, then.”

Reaching for the doorknob, she peered over her shoulder at him as he descended to the sidewalk, her breath visible on the frosty November air. He opened the door to the backseat and bowed his head at her, gliding inside the sedan that had dropped them off, and his car advanced straight into the darkness while she was welcomed into the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As with the last chapter, this was inspired by 'Colors - Stripped' by Halsey (it's my favorite version of any song she's done). 
> 
> Fun fact: My mom was a lapidary for several years, and it was her who came up with the specific open filigree pattern for Joanna's necklace. Love her bunches. 
> 
> As someone who has been the close friend of an (unsuccessfully) recovering victim of substance abuse, dated a (successfully) recovering victim of substance abuse, and worked one-on-one with a mixture of the two in a healthcare setting, I feel it needs to be said that the lines aren't always black and white. They are blurred, almost mercilessly, and yes, sometimes people don't want to get better, and you can't do anything about it. Sometimes they do, with a simple nudge now and then. And, unfortunately, that makes a lot of the difference. 
> 
> Do your own research. Learn about where addiction stems from, how it affects the brain, how it affects the people and coworkers around its victims. And for the love of god, smile now and then, or be kind. You have no idea how much it can do for someone. 
> 
> Kudos, comments, and bookmarks are most appreciated, but your time is what I value most. Thanks, fam. (*hugs you all*) The next two chapters will be entirely fluff. ;) I'm on Tumblr here --> https://ofaclassicalmind.tumblr.com/


	15. You Made Me Turn - Jaime VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime sees his recovery from several angles, all of them leading to a single point...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.) I apologize for the long wait to update. We fired someone at work the same week someone had their last day.
> 
> B.) Here be fluff. I will likely update again soon, simply because I'm in Charleston, SC for the weekend for my best friend's bachelorette party. Inspiration will likely strike sooner rather than later. (*shuffles off to Buffalo with my best friend's aunt's adorable foster dog*)
> 
> Enjoy this moment. I certainly am. :)

The night following his sister’s conviction, Jaime found himself graced with far more than the touch of Brienne’s hand alone that night in her bed; the moment she’d unfastened his mother’s necklace and delicately laid it on the nightstand, his arms opened wide to her, and she’d slipped in beside him, pressing her face into his neck as he pulled her close.

“Long day.”

She groaned in response, her hand moving across his bare chest to squeeze his shoulder.

“Do you want me to set up the computer?” he suggested, his breath skimming against her hair. “We could watch—”

“Not tonight,” she said resignedly. “I just want to sleep.”

He squeezed her lightly to let her know that was fine with him, and in a few minutes, her respirations had evened out, her bra-free, tank-top-clad torso settling along his side. His head dropped to the side, his cheek resting on her head as he prepared to sleep himself—

Then his gaze fell on the necklace she’d worn for most of the day; the necklace his father had allowed her to keep. He’d never forget the fierceness in her sapphire eyes when she sat next to him at the trial, her braid loosened into a sort of half-up, half-down style that resembled the way his mother had always worn her hair. The navy-blue suit might be her best look, but the pendant had lent her a certain ferocity and recklessness that was inherently Lannister. He caressed his thumbs over the unbearably soft skin of the arms he was holding and allowed his eyelids to fall, committing those visions to memory.

* * *

At breakfast the next morning, Bran asked if they could go to the falls for the afternoon, since it was Friday and they wouldn’t rejoin school until Monday, and they all agreed. Selwyn and Brienne drove separate vehicles to Fredericksburg, where Goodwin and his wife, Sofia, were gleefully waiting for them outside the horse barn. The kids all gave him a warm hug before they scuttled inside, Arya pushing Bran’s wheelchair, and Selwyn chose to stay behind and spend time with his old friend while the rest of them saddled up and started down the trail. Bran rode in front of Brienne, and Tyrion was loaned one of the smaller horses for their journey.

To Jaime’s surprise, Stannis and Shireen had arrived at their secret hideaway prior to their arrival, the horses they had ridden tethered to a nearby tree; Brienne had apparently called them to see if they’d like to join in the fun, because they acted as though they’d been expecting them. The way Shireen was laughing and swimming around her father made something crack in Jaime’s chest, and when she grinned at him, swimming to the rocks and climbing out to throw her sopping wet arms around him with an “Uncle Jaime!,” he split open, holding her tightly and whirling her around as rivulets of river water dripped down his back and soaked the front of his sweater. The water hadn’t taken to chill yet, and the weather was still mild for the end of November, so they all hopped in, their bodies brushed by sunlight.

After an hour or so, he saw that even though Bran was wearing a life-jacket, he hadn’t been in the water, staring at them all, a book sitting open in his lap. It took hardly any words to convince the boy of an impulsive plan, and within seconds, Jaime had eased him into the water from his perch on the rocks and took his hands, leading him around the perimeter. When Bran decided to try treading water and moving around on his own, Jaime stayed within arm’s reach, grabbing the boy’s hands again when he got tired and the current began to pull him further away.

“Did you see me?!” he asked excitedly. “I did it! I can still swim!”

Jaime laughed, delighted and proud, his heart rising to his throat when he saw the expression on Brienne’s face as she swam over.

“Bri, I did it! Did you—”

“I was watching,” she assured him, scooping him into her arms and spinning him in the water as he giggled, her small smile still offering itself in Jaime’s direction.

During the ride back, Jaime kept his horse close to Brienne’s, their ears tuned to Bran’s enthusiastic ramblings about the book he’d finished reading the previous night, and Shireen slowed her horse to keep pace with them, forcing Jaime’s behind a little.

“You’ve read Of Mice and Men...?!” she asked in awe. “My teacher said that book’s on a high school reading level. I wanted to read it, but she didn’t have a copy.”

The boy beamed at her.

“You can borrow mine. If you come to dinner tonight, we can—” He stopped mid-sentence, tilting his head up to look at Brienne. _“Can_ they come to dinner?” he requested as politely as he could.

Brienne glanced at Stannis, and he bowed his head wordlessly, restraint pushing his lips into a slight curve. She nodded at the boy then sighed; Jaime knew it was because she had no idea where she would find two more chairs on such short notice, and he chuckled.

At the junction of the river trail and the hiking trail, Jaime spotted a tree he hadn’t seen during his last visit. It was a striking oak, whose height and width spoke to its age. Any leaves that remained on the branches were brown from the late season, and the elegant bark was covered in scars where people had carved in their initials and their names.

_“Did you show him the tree?”_

He lagged behind the others as he studied it, noting the deftly-knifed ‘N + C’, followed by 22 tally marks for each year the couple had been together. Arya’s words from that catastrophic dinner continued to rattle around his mind.

_“You probably carved your names into it with a pocketknife like Mom and Dad.”_

N + C: Ned and Cat, of course.

Jaime’s breath hitched when he realized they’d never cut another year into the bark, but the scraggly, unfinished ‘B + H, B4 +’ further up the tree caught his attention. The couple had obviously meant to finish it at a later date; why hadn’t they?

_“Or did you dig into it with a car key the way that you and—”_

“So, you found the Old Gods tree.”

His head whipped around to see Stannis astride his horse, his height adding to the illusion that, in another life, he might have been a king.

“Thinking of leaving some letters for yourself?” the man said, a hint of impudence in his tone. He dismounted, leading his horse closer, examining the bark with his gloved fingers. “Rumor has it that every person that carves their name on this trunk, every child, every couple... They all live to see a happy end.”

His fingers settled over an ‘S2’, and his touch lifted, though Jaime could almost feel the bark reach back for him.

“And is it true?” Jaime played along. “Have you lived to a happy end?”

The forlorn man smiled.

“Yes,” he murmured, “but not in the way I intended.”

Understanding after a brief silence that perhaps he might like a moment alone with the odd tree, Jaime moved his horse ahead, leaving Stannis to his deliberations.

* * *

Even without Brienne’s blanket chest to sit on, dinner couldn’t have been more awkward; she had forgotten that, despite the fact that _she_ had forgiven Stannis for his treatment of Renly, the Tyrells seemingly had not. Sansa was the most successful conversationalist, bringing up topics they could all agree on to distract from the untidy ends floating about in the air. At one point, Shireen had thoughtfully brought up how much she missed playing with Tommen and Myrcella after school, and at first, the memory of those playdates with the three of them gutted him so fiercely he wasn’t sure he could respond.

Then, he felt Brienne take his hand under the table on one side, and Sansa’s foot nudge his own from the other. He cleared his throat—

“It was their favorite part of school.”

“We were sorry to hear about it,” Stannis interjected. “The loss of a child in the family, or near loss... It changes things.”

“Now, _that’s_ something I think we can actually agree on,” Arya muttered, and the bluntness of her remark made everyone laugh after a second.

The tension had relinquished its hold somewhat by the end, and when most of the guests were gone, Brienne invited Stannis into her bedroom to give him something while Shireen seated herself next to Bran on the sofa, taking the book they’d discussed during their ride. After Brienne had been in there with the door closed for a few minutes, Jaime started to steal looks at the doorway as he loaded the dishwasher, completely missing the rack and dropping a china plate that exploded on the floor at his feet.

“Shit...”

He knelt down to pick up the shards, and after he’d lifted a few of the larger fragments and placed them on the counter—

“Is everything okay?” he heard her ask.

The concern in those big, breathtaking blue eyes as she stood above him was diminished by the pure joy of Selwyn’s laugh. The man placed a hand on Jaime’s shoulder, reaching behind him and into the pantry for the broom and dustpan.

“Nothing we can’t handle, starlight,” he managed to say.

“We should be leaving anyway.”

Stannis was standing behind her, the shadowbox that held Renly’s folded funeral flag in his hands, and Jaime’s relief was replaced by embarrassment as he flushed red at his foolishness.

* * *

Tyrion was staying the night with Shae, so Jaime returned to their apartment for the first time in weeks, thankful that the housekeeper had a set of keys; his bed had fresh sheets and blankets, the kitchen counters were spotless, and the floors had recently been mopped.

He dropped his duffel and his suitcase by the bed, promising himself that he’d unpack later as he flopped onto one side, half-expecting her to be on the other when he rolled over. She wasn’t, he knew she wouldn’t be, but his knuckles brushed that side of his bed anyway, wondering if she missed it too.

His thoughts toyed with the image of the tree, and how her initial had been scratched into the bark alongside an ‘H’. Was that man still out there? Did she still love him?

_“Renly told me he didn’t think this guy was good enough for me... Of course, I still didn’t listen.”_

_“Trust doesn’t come easily to me, all right? I need time.”_

The ring of his cell phone pulled him from the churning waters of his mind. It was Brienne.

“Hey.”

“I take it everything’s okay at the apartment?” she mused.

He smiled.

“So far, so good. I miss it there, though.”

There was a pause, followed by a sigh.

“I miss it too.”

“No way,” he taunted. “I bet you’re _thrilled_ to have an entire bed to yourself again.”

In the darkness of the room, he could have sworn he saw her smirk across from him, rolling onto her back the way she always did when she felt uncomfortable.

They talked about the dinner, and she told him how gratified Stannis had been to take Renly’s flag home. Jaime mentioned how cozy Shireen and Bran had been on the couch with their book, and she appeared to him even more clearly, rolling her eyes and tugging the comforter over her shoulder.

“They’re _kids,_ Jaime. The idea of being anything more than friends is probably miles away for both of them.”

He couldn’t explain why, but something inside him glimmered.

“That doesn’t mean they wouldn’t make a good team someday, does it?”

Silence tumbled through the phone.

“No,” she eventually whispered. “It doesn’t.”

* * *

She kept her word, meeting him outside the gymnasium’s double doors at 2 PM, wearing a pair of slacks and an emerald blouse to match the pendant she’d chosen. Nothing would ever suit her more than his mother’s necklace, and as she took his hand, allowing him to steady himself, the rightness of everything in his life overwhelmed him, and he walked in beside her with a stupefied smile on his face.

What on earth had he done to deserve so much happiness?

Everyone in the group was ecstatic to see him again; Edd was the first to tackle him into a hug, making some sadistic joke about how long it had been since they’d seen him, and Beric was second, shaking his hand and bowing his head at Brienne when he was introduced to her. Jeor wouldn’t even look at him until he’d met the newcomer, who blushed when he took the hand she’d offered for a shake and kissed it like she were a damsel instead.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you at last, major. We’ve heard so much about you.”

The meeting was a difficult one; everyone updated him with quick snippets of the weeks he’d missed, eager to know how Jaime had made it through the last seven weeks with only one meeting under his belt. He disclosed everything to them, minus the extraneous details, and she contributed here and there when appropriate. After thirty minutes of talking about all of it, he concluded with, “Honestly, alcohol rarely even crosses my mind when I’m with her.”

Edd grinned, leaning forward in his seat as if he’d admitted something, and Beric’s eyebrows climbed his forehead.

_Fuck._

“With all of them,” Jaime added, but it was too late; Brienne was already staring at her lap.

 _Shit._  

“Well, I’m glad to know you’re still making progress, Jaime,” Jeor said, rising to his feet. “It’s that time, though. Major, I hope you’ll join us again sometime.”

She smiled at the kind man, who strode to her and gave her a hug. As Jaime said his goodbyes to the others, he saw Jeor lean forward and murmur something in her ear that had her laughing in no time. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d brought that sound out of her.

Perhaps he should make it a point to try more often.

* * *

Each week, she’d call Tyrion to work out their schedules, deciding who would attend AA with him, and Friday night dinners continued as they usually did, even as the holidays descended with the chilly, damp December air. Work steadily increased with the season, as it was wont to do, and when the adoption was finalized, Jaime went with her to collect the paperwork. They began to take their lunches together, and now and then he’d take a pair of scrubs to her house when she invited him to stay the night.

Those sleepy early mornings, where they rolled out of bed together with a groan, or she thwacked him with her pillow when he begged for five more minutes, were the moments he treasured most. Brushing his teeth while she pulled her hair into her classic low bun, taking a shower while she rummaged through her laundry basket three feet away... Jaime loved it. All of it.

He spent Christmas Eve with Brienne and the kids, knowing Tyrion and Shae would likely want the morning alone before heading over to Evenfall for the day, and Jaime told her Tywin was choosing to spend the holiday alone, much to Brienne’s chagrin.

“I don’t understand why. It’s not like he’d—”

“He might be thinking of the kids,” he reasoned from her passenger seat. “I doubt they’d enjoy hosting him when they’re just getting used to having _me_ around.”

She huffed, and he was struck with the urge to laugh; she was almost _too_ good sometimes.

He’d gone with her to get the two-year-old Alaskan malamute she’d chosen to adopt from the local rescue center later that night, helping her sneak the dog into her room so the kids wouldn’t see or hear it. That meant that when he woke up in bed, it was to find himself sandwiched between Brienne’s warm back and a massive, contented dog that started licking the nape of his neck as soon as he stirred.

Which was made infinitely more problematic when Brienne keened and stretched back against him, unaware that she was burrowing her ass into his half-hard cock in a way that brought him to full attention in less than a minute. He had to choke back a moan that would have been most unacceptable for their friendship when she tugged his arm further over her torso, bringing her entire body flush with his own. Her neck was only an inch from his lips, and it wouldn’t be difficult to—

He’d never been more relieved to hear a knock on her bedroom door.

“Starlight?” Selwyn called.

The dog stood up and leapt from the bed, eager to go outside, and the mattress bounced with its effort, rousing her. She looked over her shoulder at him, smiling her drowsy smile.

“Merry Christmas...”

He buried his forehead into her shoulder, tremendously grateful that he was practiced in swallowing his emotions.

“Merry Christmas,” he breathed, stroking the hand that held him with his thumb.

* * *

The two of them exchanged their gifts for one another in the kitchen over coffee as the kids woke up. His gift to her was simple, yet saturated with meaning; a gift card to the furniture store he knew she liked, and enough for her to buy two new chairs.

“To our friends, and our properly cushioned asses,” he toasted, clinking his mug against her own. “No more blanket chests.”

She chortled, shaking her head before handing him a palm-sized box tied with a crimson ribbon. Cocking an eyebrow at her, he put down his mug and opened it to see a silver house key with an ‘E’ engraved on it.  

“I didn’t want something else to happen without you having the option,” she elaborated, her face reddening. “They all agreed with me. The code for the door alarm is 683—”

He cut her off with an embrace, his heart unable to withstand the deepening tide of her words as the devotion he felt consumed him.

The kids fawned over the dog when they bounded down the stairs, and they all cried when the rolls of finalized papers were pulled from their stockings, each wrapped with a blue ribbon. In addition to the gift of a new parent, each child received something they truly wanted: Sansa got a new sketch book for her fashion designs, along with a pack of colored pencils from him, Arya opened her bag to find a new pair of boxing gloves that would actually fit her, and Bran grinned from ear to ear when he saw the $100 gift certificate to the local bookstore wedged in the envelope with his card.

The dog, however, became the main attraction soon after.

“We should name her Lady,” Sansa crooned, scratching the satisfied dog’s ears.

“It’s a _boy,_ Sansa,” Arya moaned, making Selwyn chuckle.

“Why don’t we name him Ghost?” Bran proposed. “He’s white all over, and he was so quiet we didn’t even know he was in their room last night.”

As the children decided on Ghost, Jaime could only hear the word ‘their’, and all that it implied.

* * *

Time passed in the same fashion; Friday night dinners, work, AA meetings, and the weekly sleepover or two. Ghost would usually sleep with one of the kids when he stayed over, leaving the bed to just the two of them, for which Jaime was thankful, and his dreams slowly morphed from the lies Cersei had always convinced him to be true of himself to the honesty and affection Brienne shared with him, day-in and day-out.

It was about five months later when, at the end of a lengthy procedure, Gilly’s water broke. Shae was by her side in seconds, assisting her to the locker room where she could shower before heading to the ER to be admitted, and based on the ecstatic look Brienne gave him, Jaime knew they wouldn’t be leaving the hospital for a while.

Jonathan Tarly was born at 02:38 AM, weighing around eight pounds, two ounces. Jaime and Brienne finally got to meet Sam, Gilly’s husband, as well as their little boy, Sam Jr., and the way the portly young med student hovered over his wife and sons with pride reminded Jaime of the day Joffrey was born; when he was an infant, innocent and perfect, the weight of his small, blanket-clad body settling into his arms like he was meant to be there.

Of course, he wasn’t.

Jon opened his eyes once he was in Jaime’s arms, his tiny fingers balling into fists as he blinked, his senses bombarded with his new surroundings.

“You’re beautiful...” he purred, sitting on the room’s sofa and stroking the top of the baby’s head where a healthy heap of sandy brown hair had grown in utero.

A hand rubbed his back through his tee shirt, and he leaned into it, knowing exactly who it would be.

“Here.”

He turned to her, placing the babe in her arms. Brienne took him gingerly, handling him as if he might break. Jon cooed as she stared down at him, and when she brought her pinky to his hand, he clutched it instantly, pinching his eyes shut as his head rolled toward her chest.

“He likes you,” Sam encouraged.

Jaime saw it, then; the same, hopeful smile she’d given him the day he’d supported Bran’s efforts to swim... Except this time, the newborn child in her arms was the recipient.

“I like him too.”

* * *

Three weeks later, he woke up a few hours before she did, his excitement for the day eclipsing any dream he could have had. He stayed beside her, watching her sleep, her asymmetrical features transcendent in the early morning moonlight.

Two years. He’d been sober for two years today.

Each freckle on her face formed a memory, and he soon lost count of them. There was one near her temple: That was for how sick he’d gotten in rehab. The faint one by the tip of her nose—that was for the way his therapist, Dr. Naath, hadn’t judged him for how he’d reacted to his sister’s substance abuse, or what he’d done to Bran. A tear-shaped freckle above her jawline on her left cheek represented the night he’d lost Tommen and Myrcella, and the grief his (future) best friend had helped him wade through.

The spattering below her collarbone was where he found the memories he cherished most; the way she’d softly snore if she laid on her left side, or Sansa and Arya bickering over nothing; how Bran’s face lit up when Shireen walked through the door for the occasional Friday night dinner, despite his insistence that they were ‘just friends’. Jaime could see right through it.

Because it was becoming a familiar song and dance for him too.

* * *

At two o’clock, he straightened his tie in the bathroom mirror and stepped out to see her waiting for him, his mother’s pendant around her neck, the navy-blue suit he loved to see her wear adorning her body. She opened one of the double doors for him, and he was bombarded with a, “Happy Sobriety Birthday!” shouted by so many people he hadn’t expected to see.

Everyone in his group had attended, and Tyrion and Shae were there, of course, but so were Stannis, Shireen, the Tyrells, Ros, Sandor, and Pod. Gilly and her family had come too, even though she’d only had Jon a few weeks ago. Selwyn was present, standing next to the Starks, who launched themselves at Jaime with their arms outstretched like they hadn’t seen him in forever, when in reality, he’d seen them ten minutes ago when Brienne had dropped them off out front so they could park.

The pair of emerald eyes at the back of the room stunned him the most, though, and as the kids rejoined the group, he took Brienne’s hand, aware that she’d been the one to invite all these people, including the one person who should see how far he’d come.

When the celebration was through, their friends and family headed over to Evenfall for dinner, where there was a _second_ cake, and a spread of his favorite foods. If the kids were uneasy around Tywin, it didn’t show, and after such a busy day, their guests still managed to go home with smiles on their faces. His father hadn’t said a word to him all day, but before he left, he smirked, bowing his head in acknowledgement.

It was as close to ‘I’m proud of you’ as Jaime would get.

* * *

He bounced the idea around his head the following day, and when he asked Pod for his opinion, he said, “I think it’s a brilliant plan,” his Scottish dialect coloring in the enthusiastic lines of his tone.

So, after they got into the parking deck, he handed Brienne the coin Jeor had ordered for him, its golden ‘2’ on a scarlet background dazzling even under the shitty fluorescent lights above them.

“It’s gorgeous...”

Her voice was soaked with the same tenderness she used to caress the number with her thumb.

“It’s yours.”

Her impossible, exquisite eyes flew to his.

“I can’t accept this,” she protested. “You earned it. After everything you’ve been through, it’s—”

“That coin was only possible _because_ of you. Because of what _we’ve_ been through.”

Her chin quavered; a sign he knew by now meant she was on the verge of tears.

“I can’t be your reason, Jaime,” she told him, studying her shoes. “That’s not how it works...”

“I know it isn’t,” he declared, stepping forward and placing his hands on her arms, “and I’d never put you in that position. But you _are_ the person who made me see who I can be when no one else could. _You_ helped me hold myself accountable. _You_ brought me into your home, knowing it might upset the people closest to you, because it was the right thing to do. _You_ chose to stay when you were given a way out. I’ll never understand—”

A sob escaped her, so he wrapped his arms around her, bringing her close.

“I want you to keep it as a reminder of everything you’ve done for me,” he said against her ear, “so you never forget that you deserve the same effort.”

She nodded into his shoulder, her uneven breath balancing itself as she pulled away, slipping the coin into her scrubs.

* * *

Two months later, he was seated across from three prominent figures he knew too well: Dr. Melisandre Asshai, president of the employee diversion program and full-time physician for the emergency department; the Honorable Thoros Myr, Chief Judge of the Washington, D.C. Superior Court…

And Dr. Aemon Targaryen, chairman of the board of directors for Baelor Hospital and uncle of the man Jaime had helped to kill.

Three people, all of whom had the power to aid him or ruin him.

“We can begin, I suppose,” Thoros announced. “Twenty-six months ago, you, Jaime Lannister, knowingly endangered the life of one of your patients by operating when you were in no state to do so. Do you deny it?”

Jaime shook his head.

“No.”

“And do you deny that, for nearly five years prior to that incident, you were abusing alcohol, even in the workplace?”

His heart sank, aware that he didn’t stand a chance. He’d been an idiot to believe otherwise.

“No.”

“For god’s sake, Thoros, he knows why he’s here,” Dr. Asshai assuaged. “We all do. Mr. Lannister, as soon as your patient woke up in his condition, what did you do?”

He felt his brow furrow in frustration.

“I called you about the diversion program.” _Breathe_ , he reminded himself. _You have to breathe._ “After that, I spoke with my father, and he released me from my work obligations so I could go to rehab.”

“And after rehab, what did I recommend you do?”

She was smirking, and only then did he realize she was guiding the conversation in his favor.

“You said I should learn to deal with my stress in a safe environment for the remainder of my first year.”

“And you listened,” she stated simply.

As if any of it had been simple.

“I lived in a halfway house for nine months,” he confessed. “I’ve been living with my brother ever since.”

“But you haven’t only been living with your brother,” Thoros affirmed. “Can you confirm that in—”

“We are here to determine whether or not this man has earned the right to practice again, not to inquire about his personal relationships,” Aemon cut in, his blind eyes staring over Jaime’s head. “Mr. Lannister, you were asked to bring a letter from your supervisor commending your performance over the last fourteen months. Do you have it?”

Jaime reached into his briefcase, pulling the sealed envelope from its pocket and handing it to Dr. Asshai, who opened it.

“‘To whomever it may concern on the reinstatement council:

None of you know me well enough to trust my reputation despite my credentials. I’m a soldier, an accomplished surgeon, and my name isn’t as recognizable here as it might be in a military hospital in Iraq.

Now, imagine that the opposite was true; that everyone in the country knew my name, but nothing about who I truly am.

I thought I knew Jaime Lannister the moment I met him; his family is one of, if not _the_ wealthiest family in the United States. His billboard-ready features have been used to draw more patrons and patients to Baelor than any actor in Hollywood could have done, and with that comes an assumed inherent arrogance. The publicity he garnered for his sister’s substance abuse was repulsive; magazine covers, television interviews...

Yet none of that is the Jaime Lannister I have come to know.

During our first surgery together, I took a risk that I usually would in a military setting, putting a patient’s life in danger. Mr. Lannister took full responsibility for my actions, though my choice was not his own, and as a result, lost half his salary and two more months to the diversion program. He accepted the brunt of my decision with grace and patience.

When a patient infected with Marburg hemorrhagic virus attacked me and my team, Mr. Lannister put his life on the line for ours, running into the room with an emergency sedative and without a suit, exposing himself in order to save us. He bore the two weeks of biocontainment with little complaint, but in that time, patients we’d operated on asked after him until they were discharged. Family members were distressed to hear that the surgeon who actually listened to their concerns and spent extra time explaining procedures and recovery times might die. In only five months, this man had earned more trust from our patients than I ever could.

Working beside such an honorable man has helped me make changes in my own life, and it’s not just mine that he’s affected; Dr. Podrick Payne, who was certified by the board only three weeks ago, shines with confidence when Mr. Lannister enters the room and says hello. My nurses feel comfortable enough in the operating room to laugh at his occasional jokes, no matter how difficult the procedure. Our patients reflect his smile when he steps into their rooms, and he treats every person he works with, from myself as Chief of Surgery to the nurse aide we hired last week, like an equal.

You may not know me, but I know him, and I can say with conviction that he is continuing to successfully recover. The world could only be improved by the reinstatement of his surgeon’s license.

Thank you for your time, and your consideration.

Signed, Major Brienne Tarth, Chief of Surgery and orthopedic surgeon at Baelor Hospital,’” Dr. Asshai concluded.

Silence devoured the room as Jaime sat there, his lips parted as he tried to comprehend the praise he’d received from the person he respected most.

“Major Tarth’s word carries more weight in this meeting than she knows,” Aemon said at last, an amused smile tugging at his wrinkled skin. “My sister, Rhae, got pregnant out of wedlock with a soldier we all knew to be honorable. Unfortunately, he was killed in combat before they could be married, and our family disowned her. She abandoned the family home and moved to Savannah, where her daughter, Rhiannon, fell deeply in love with the son of a nearby mayor.”

Savannah…? But that would mean—

“Rhiannon married Selwyn Tarth that summer, and she started at Yale in the fall with financial help from the Tarth family...” His smile broke into a grin. “… Along with a few substantial, anonymous scholarships.”

The key Jaime had tucked into his pants pocket burned itself into his upper thigh.

“You’re Brienne’s great-uncle…?”

He nodded.

“When Rhiannon died, I offered my own home to Selwyn and his daughter. He refused, as I expected him to, so I gave Senator Tyrell the key to Evenfall instead,” the ancient man elaborated. “He took it. Integrity and stubbornness run through Major Tarth’s veins, and if she says you have earned your license back, I stand by her.”

It couldn’t be that easy. Nothing in his life ever came without a humiliating price of some sort.

“Any trauma she’s ever done first thing in the morning was a referral I made an hour before,” Dr. Asshai revealed. “All the physicians in the emergency department trust her with their patients. You’ve chosen your friends wisely, Mr. Lannister.”

She glanced at Thoros, raising her eyebrows.

“My partner knows her through his AA group,” he told them, giving Jaime a knowing look. “Beric could write a fucking song about her, the way he talks. Says she comes with a friend of hers. Any idea who that might be…?”

Jaime swallowed hard.

“I thought so,” Thoros deliberated. “You’ve completed all our requirements, and your supervisor’s reputation has preceded your own. Congratulations, _Dr._ Lannister.”

And without another word, the judge stood from his chair and exited the room, Dr. Asshai close behind him. Aemon rose to his feet, grabbing his white cane.

“Walk with me,” he instructed genially. “We’ll have to discuss the paperwork.”

Jaime stood, filing behind the older gentleman as he left the hospital conference room.

“She sounds as fiery as her grandmother,” Aemon continued. “Tell me, boy: What does she look like?”

The tap-scrape of the cane’s tip on the marble floor echoed down the hall while Jaime scrambled with the puzzle pieces of his mind’s eye.

“Her, uh… Her hair is light blonde, and she has a pale complexion.”

“That’s the Targaryen in her,” his companion verified. “We all had it. What of her eyes? Her face? Is she petite, like Rhae was?”

“I certainly wouldn’t describe her as petite,” Jaime said with a chuckle. “She’s at least an inch taller than me, and I’m six foot two.”

Aemon laughed.

“Now _that_ is something I’d like to see.”

“Oh, no. If you could only see one thing about her, it should be her eyes,” he assured him. “Bluer than any gem I’ve ever seen.”

“And how long have you loved her?”

Aemon apparently sensed the way Jaime’s feet stopped carrying him forward, his cane failing to dance across the floor as he turned to him. Jaime attempted to form words, but his breath caught in his throat instead.

He knew he cared about her, he had for a long time. However—

“You don’t deny it,” Aemon said, seemingly impressed. “Good. I may be blind, young lion, but I remember how it sounds. The lilt of your voice when you picture her; the slow, jarring inhale the moment you see her and know it to be true… None of those nuances are lost on me. Every sigh, every joyous note is still etched into the recesses of my _own_ mind.”

Jaime could only stand there, his lips slightly parted in astonishment. Had this man really—

“And before you ask, yes, I did trick you into this conversation with the excuse of paperwork my secretary is more than capable of handling. Major Tarth has done so very much for you, Dr. Lannister. Don’t let her down.”

The old man smiled to his toes, meandering down the hall and out of sight.

* * *

He clutched the bouquet of pink camellias to his chest as he slipped the key into its hole, unlocking the door.

 _“She’s got the flu,”_ Sansa’s voice had barreled through his earpiece. _“We’re on our way to the Tyrells right now. She won’t let any of us stay with her, not even Grandpa. Do you think you could—”_

_“I’ll be there in thirty minutes," he confirmed.  
_

_“And if you bring her flowers, make sure there aren’t any roses, okay? I’ll explain later.”_

At the _beep_ of the door alarm being silenced and disarmed, he heard Brienne shout upstairs from the laundry room.

“Arya, I’m not having this discussion again,” she called in a scratchy, congested tone as her footsteps rebounded on the stairs. “The last thing I need is Coach Forel jumping down my throat about—”

She stopped at the top of the steps when she saw him, the magnificent mess of her stealing his breath in one fell swoop. Her off-center nose was raw from Kleenex abrasion, there were dark circles under her dull blue eyes, and her usually well-brushed hair was tangled, bits and pieces floating around her head like a halo. Her deliciously oversized mouth was open in disbelief that he was there, while he tried to recall ever seeing something so beautiful, so worthy of love.

“Jaime…?” she inquired, her gaze fixing on the bouquet as she tugged her sweatshirt closer to her body. “I thought you were going to be at the meeting all afternoon…”

He threw his arms around her even as she struggled to put distance between them, her fatigue reducing her efforts to grumbling about being contagious in seconds. Soon, she relaxed, her feverish forehead nestling into the crook of his neck as he squashed the three words he so desperately wanted to say. Because Aemon was right.

She was his best friend, and he loved her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was inspired by 'Save Me' by Gotye and 'Landed' by Ben Folds.
> 
> About to go out with the bride-to-be for night number one, so I'll answer comments on the previous chapter, etc. tomorrow in the early AM. If there are mistakes, they'll be fixed tomorrow. In the meantime, I'm about to take care of a bunch of drunk, fantastic women. 
> 
> The best news is that WE'RE HALFWAY-ISH THROUGH! (*picks up best friend's aunt's foster dog and waltzes offstage*)


	16. Pick Me Up, I've Landed - Brienne IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne catches the flu... And some feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of life-changing decisions being made over here (namely a move to Denmark in two or three years), so I apologize for the long-awaited update. Wish I had the time to write something for JB Week 2019, but this entire chapter is almost nothing *but* JB, so I guess that counts...?
> 
> Anywho, it's super long, and I hope you enjoy it!

She’d woken up to see the kids off to school that day, even though every muscle in her body ached. Her throat was scratchy, but it was 6 AM, and it wasn’t uncommon for her to suffer from nasal drainage during the last months of summer while she slept.

“Probably something you picked up at the OB a few days ago,” Olenna had told her. “If you want, you can send them all over to my house. It would be a pity for Arya to miss swim practice one week into the school year because she got the flu.”

By early afternoon, she had chills, nausea, and she was certain that if she struck a match in front of her lips, her throat would ignite it was so inflamed.

 _“They’re not using a needle, are they?” the older woman asked. “I don’t trust needles that are longer than my finger. There’s only one thing longer than a finger that I want in my body or yours, and it’s_ not _a—”_

_“Olenna!” Brienne exclaimed, feeling a blush diffuse from her face to her neck and beyond. “They’re not using a needle; they’re dilating me. It’s no different than the procedure you’d use for inserting an IUD.”_

_The matriarch scoffed._

_“As if that’s any better…!”_

_They went into the clinic together, and she confirmed the sperm she’d chosen on the paperwork, filling out the information for the procedure and handing it back to the medical assistant. The moment she sat next to Olenna again—_

_“So, who_ is _this man you’ve chosen?”_

_Maybe she should have brought Margaery after all._

_“He’s an outdoorsman,” Brienne begrudgingly admitted, hoping the woman would remain quiet if she talked about him. “He’s about forty-three, speaks five languages, and he’s from a Norwegian family that can trace their lineage back to the Viking era.”_

_“Strong genes, then,” Olenna teased. “Of course, strong genes mean nothing in the end. My husband was healthy as a horse, and Mace turned out to be the softest, most incompetent man alive. Don’t get me wrong; you’re absolutely singular, and you’d have a hard time finding a man to match that. But you should have at least told—”_

_“Brienne?” one of the nurses announced by the office door, clipboard in hand._

_She could feel the eyes of everyone in the waiting room as she stood from her chair, the hushed conversations about her height, her looks, the way her body was structured—_

_“Don’t forget these,” Olenna reminded her, handing over her wallet and phone._

_The woman was smiling, so Brienne did too. Crossing the room amidst the stares and gossip, she followed the nurse through the door and, once determining her health that day with a set of vital signs, she was escorted to a room where portraits of laughing mothers and newborn babies beamed out at her. The women were stunning, and their children were equally so._

_Would her child be as handsome as that? Ned hadn’t been conventional when it came to his facial features, yet Catelyn had possessed a lovely face, and every child they’d created together was gorgeous in their own way. Arya was the one who resembled Ned the most, and even now Brienne was beginning to hear rumors of a senior on the varsity men’s wrestling team that had taken a shine to the girl._

_Tormund’s photos had proven him to be attractive from the start, his fiery red hair and dazzling blue eyes giving her hope that her child might be comely; however, in the end, she of all people knew looks weren’t everything, and that wasn’t why she’d chosen to do this at all._

_She and Tormund had exchanged phone numbers to talk about everything, as this was her first insemination and the first time anyone had picked him from the binder. She’d winced when he sent her a thumbs-up emoji earlier that morning for good luck, but he was considerate, and said he’d be proud to share her DNA, as ‘big and strong’ as she was._

_An idiot, but a decent idiot all the same._

_She sat on the table, her legs bracketed by stirrups as she fished inside the coin purse of her wallet, pinching Jaime’s sobriety chip in her fingers. The sting in her chest was easy to recall when Bran had turned to her after swimming on his own at the river, full of love and delight. At first, she’d dismissed it, mentally confining herself to the fact that she hadn’t even successfully adopted the Starks yet._

_Then Jaime placed Jon in her arms a few weeks ago, his tiny hand grasping her pinky, and she couldn’t ignore it anymore. She was thirty-four, and would turn thirty-five in only a few months. Her time was running out._

_The coin had become a familiar sensation beneath the pads of her fingers over the last few weeks, the number’s smooth trajectory across the crimson background calming her thoughts. She hadn’t told him about this new path she’d chosen because she’d been in the midst of inviting people to his sobriety birthday celebration, and she didn’t want to make it about her when it should be about_ him _and_ his _progress… Or, at least, that’s what she kept telling herself._

_He’d been so glad to hear the kids had said yes to the adoption; surely he’d support her in this too?_

_Because she deserved this. She deserved to do something for her own happiness._

Now, all she could think about was how goddamned _sick_ she was. She was doing the laundry when she heard someone enter the house and disable the alarm, and after she’d climbed the stairs, she’d never been more relieved to see her best friend.

Jaime mothered her from the moment he released her from their hug, demanding that she stay in bed and let him take care of everything else. Initially, she refused, and he went on a tirade about how if she didn’t rest, it would only mean a longer recovery period; her family (and the dog) would have to stay with the Tyrells for at least one extra night; it would be a few more days before she could return to work…

She _hated_ when he was right.

Her chills weren’t so bad, but the soreness of her back and sides was unbearable. Curling up under her comforter, she was finally able to appreciate the beauty of the flowers he’d brought her when she rolled onto her side and glanced at her nightstand, the light, feminine pink blossoms vibrating against the edge of the vase he’d put them in. She started to drift away, the edges of their petals fresh in her mind, when a loud _thud_ came from her desk.

Opening her eyes, she saw that Jaime had hijacked the living room television, and was searching for an outlet to plug it into.

“What the hell are you doing?” she growled, attempting (and failing) to sit up.

He wouldn’t even look at her, he was so preoccupied.

“Before Mom died, she’d take the television and put it in my room whenever I got sick so I could watch it,” he managed to say with a groan as he knelt on the floor, arranging her power strip in a way that wouldn’t burn the house to the ground. “I figured since you’d be in here for a few days, and I’m not going anywhere, we might as well indulge ourselves.”

She huffed, rolling the other way, and a riptide of nausea tore through her, starting at her toes and steadily ascending to her head.

_“Fuck…”_

Her body couldn’t carry her out of bed fast enough, and Jaime was sitting next to her in an instant, holding out the recently emptied trash can she kept by her desk. There wasn’t even time for her to thank him before she snatched it away and littered the metal container with what little she’d eaten, his hand rubbing her back as she debated on whether or not she was in the clear.

“How did the meeting go?” she questioned, trying to take her mind off of it.

His hand stilled, and he didn’t answer right away. Hundreds of negative scenarios formed in her mind—

“They said yes.”

Her eyes flew to his, and he was already smiling at her.

“Your letter was… It meant a lot,” he began, causing her heart to flutter. Or was that her stomach? “They were impressed that someone with your honorable reputation and skill would support me. If, uh…” A steady inhale, and he averted his gaze. “If I’m honest, I was surprised by it too. I know we’re friends, but what you said about Pod, our patients…” His voice sounded heavy. “For over a decade, none of my colleagues spoke highly of me because of what happened with Aerys. No one worth anything to anyone has ever shown me as much respect as you did in that letter, and I…” He swallowed hard. “I want you to know that I won’t forget that.”

One of her hands released the trash can to take his own, hoping her fingers lacing between his own spoke for her better than her words might. A harsh exhale pulsed the air around her as he moved closer, pressing his forehead to her shoulder. She tried to scoot away, but the hand that had been massaging her back snaked around her waist, holding her even more tightly.

“I don’t want you to—”

“I got my flu shot late last year,” he told her with a chuckle. “You can’t give it to me.”

She sighed, the last currents of nausea dissipating under his touch. He kissed her shoulder, a gesture meant to be innocent, yet even through her sweater she could feel his lips scald her skin despite how feverish she knew she was becoming. To counter it, she put the trash can on the floor by the bed and laid back down, allowing him to pull the covers over them both as he took off his shoes and laid down beside her.

“Do you want me to go get some Pedialyte?” he murmured, caressing a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

Her chest fragmented at the way he was looking at her, so she closed her eyes, shaking her head and taking the hand that had touched her cheek.

“Maybe later… Hey, when you hear the dryer go off, do you think you could—”

“Is the basket downstairs?”

She nodded, nestling her head into her pillow, and he squeezed her hand.

“I’ll fold it all and leave the basket on the couch,” he said, answering her unspoken question. “You should sleep…”  

For a moment, she wanted to kiss his knuckles no matter how sick she felt. Rather than risk it, she clutched his hand to her chest, and he shifted his body closer to hers. The sound of his breath lulled her into the blessed abyss of unconsciousness, its warmth tickling her collarbone as an ocean breeze swept her up and under.

* * *

It was the lengthy shudder of pain, licking her body when a deepening chill gnawed at her, that woke her. He wasn’t there, but a glass of pale orange liquid over ice had been left on her nightstand, near the vase of flowers. Sitting up, she took the glass and sipped from it, recognizing the tropical fruit flavor from some of her worst childhood memories… The stuff always worked, though.

It was chilly to the touch, and the ice was only partially melted, so he hadn’t been gone long. God, what time was it?

She reached over and grabbed her phone, noticing she had five missed FaceTime calls from Sansa.

_Shit…_

Swiping left to unlock the device, she called her back at once, the affectionate smiles she saw as the young woman answered alleviating her fatigue.

“Feeling any better, starlight?” her father inquired.

Pushing herself up to rest her back against the headboard, she shook her head.

“If anything, it’s getting worse,” she replied, yanking the comforter up to cover her body.

“We’re so sorry to hear that, dear,” Olenna said, her genuine concern laced with glee. “Oh, by the way, I overheard Senator Bolton say something today about a three-day conference for the American Surgeon Association in three weeks. Tywin will apparently be attending, and you and Jaime should be invited in the next day or so. You each get to bring someone with you, and there’s going to be an awards dinner, so—”  

“Can I go with you?” Sansa pleaded. “It’s in Savannah, and I’ve been _dying_ to visit SCAD…”

The teenager wasn’t lying; ever since she’d found out Savannah College of Art and Design offered a Bachelor of Fine Arts in fashion, the girl hadn’t stopped abusing the sketch book she’d received for Christmas. This year, Brienne would likely have to purchase _two_ of them, and though Jaime’s salary would be reinstated soon, she knew he’d made a dent in his wallet continually purchasing the pencils and markers Sansa preferred to use.

But it would be in Savannah. Brienne would practically be _home_.

“Of course you can come with me,” she confirmed. “We could even visit Tarth, if you want.”

The girl’s river-blue eyes widened, knowing how much the suggestion truly meant.

“I’d love that.”

She could tell from the way Sansa lifted her chin slightly and looked down that she felt the same gratitude. Being separated from the kids, _her_ kids…

God, she fucking _detested_ being sick.

“Who is it?” Jaime asked, a steaming bowl of something in each hand as he walked through the door and over to her.

“It’s the kids…” She was utterly distracted by the heavenly smell wafting in her direction as he put the bowl down on her nightstand. “What _is_ that?”

He smirked, getting into bed beside her.

“A secret.”

“Do you think we could schedule a campus tour while we’re down there?” Sansa posed. “Nothing extravagant, I promise. Just so I could take a look around, meet some of their—”

“Wait, where are you going?” Jaime pried, his fierce expression fixing on Brienne. “You’re staying right-the-hell here until you—”

“We’re going to be invited to a conference in Savannah for work in the next few days,” she pacified him.

His cheeks broke into a grin.

“And can I take someone with me?”

“She’s taking _Sansa,_ you loser,” Arya groused. “But, if you asked me nicely—”

“We should see if Dad wants to go with us first,” Brienne suggested, and after a moment, Jaime slowly nodded.

“I think I’ll pass this time, sweetheart,” Selwyn’s voice said, his sad blue eyes coming into view. “The four of you go have some fun.”

Rather than argue, she tried to smile, hoping that would be enough to soothe the pain her father was experiencing at the thought of going back to Tarth. Jaime wrapped an arm around her, and she knew he understood.

“In that case, Arya, would you—”

“Do I _have_ to wear a dress to dinner?” she probed in disgust.

Brienne bit her bottom lip to restrain her amusement.

“We’ll find you something that—”

“Let me design our dinner outfits!” Sansa proclaimed. “I can have them done by the end of the week.”

“Give them to me on Friday at dinner, and I’ll get them to our family seamstress. She’ll have everything finished in time,” Jaime concluded. “That way, you can add them to your portfolio for SCAD.”

Sansa’s face lit up, and Brienne’s heart soared in an unfamiliar way; the fact that this man had drawn such a reaction from this wonderful child she’d considered one of her best friends since the day she’d been born… It filled her with a nameless emotion, soaking her in light both inside and out.

* * *

The duck noodle soup with vegetables he’d made for dinner had been lovely, amplifying her need to rest as soon as it hit her stomach.

_“Mom would cook a pot of it for everyone whenever somebody got the flu. Either you got better, or if you didn’t have it to begin with, you never caught it.”_

Brienne laid awake alone, recalling how irritated he’d been when she insisted that he sleep on the couch because her fever had worsened, soup or no soup. It was 02:19, and she’d woken up from her food coma half-expecting him to be lying in the bed with her, wishes be damned. She grabbed the television remote, turning it to a documentary about the ocean on BBC America when a chill ripped through her, wrenching her muscles from their bones. As she climbed out of bed to don a thicker, drier sweater from her dresser, she heard the springs of the couch creak, the faint sound indicating he was sitting up and listening to her move around the room. By the time she’d gotten back into bed, he’d walked in, entering her bathroom and returning with her thermometer. He knelt on the mattress and leaned toward her, and she immediately shrunk away.

“You are _not_ taking my temperature like I’m some helpless child.”

His eyes darkened, and he fucking _lunged_ at her, pinning her to the mattress and holding her down with his weight as she wrestled him, trying to free herself; a battle she was currently losing in her weakened state.

 _Damn_ the flu. Damn it to hell.

“Get _off_ me—”

He struggled even harder, not enough to hurt her, but just enough to hold down one of her arms with his free hand.

“If you stopped _acting_ like a child, I wouldn’t treat you like one…!”

She exhaled, her body stilling and her eyes shutting as she opened her mouth for him to position the thermometer under her tongue for a few seconds.

_Beep-beep-beep-beep! Beep-beep-beep-beep!_

It continued to sing to the tune of a high fever even after he removed it, and when she opened her eyes to see what the problem was, it was to see Jaime above her, his pelvis still settled between her legs and pressing into her own, his face so close that she could feel his breath entering her lungs with every pant. He smelled like sunlight in autumn, when it would filter its way through the dying leaves and obtain that spiced, comforting aroma of home.

When she felt him stirring against her inner thigh from their bout of horseplay, all of her blood traveled south, leaving no trace of its grounding presence in her brain, and for a glorious moment, she allowed herself the possibility that he might find her attractive; that this carbon-dioxide thief, the most resplendent man she’d ever known, might care about her a fraction of the amount that she so hopelessly cherished him. Even as sick as she was, she could feel herself becoming more sensitive between her legs, and she clenched her thighs and straightened her legs, trying to ward off some of the tension, not even thinking about how the movement would cause his ever-hardening length to brush against where her body wanted him most. She had to bite her bottom lip to stifle a moan at the delectable friction.

His stormy currents flitted from her lips to the thermometer, and he frowned, dropping the device and scrambling off of her.

“Shit…!” He muttered, his frantic gaze meeting hers. _“104.3 degrees?!”_

She watched as he darted to her dresser, pulling out an old George Washington University tee and throwing it over his god-like torso.

“Put on your shoes,” he instructed.

Wait… What?

“Why?”

Jaime froze, whirling around.

“You’re joking, right?” he asked incredulously. “I’m taking you to the hospital. You need—”

_“No.”_

“Brienne…”

He combed his chin-length hair back with both hands in frustration, and she laid down, putting her back to him. The floorboards creaked under his feet as he left the room for a few minutes, and she had just gotten comfortable when the mattress shifted, the gentle touch of his hand on her arm setting her sore muscles aflame.

“Look, I won’t fight you on it if you don’t want to go, but at least let me stay in here with you,” he conceded, taking her hand and dropping two extra-strength Tylenol in her palm. “Take them.” Her face contorted into a scowl. “Please…”  

She sat up to swallow them with some Pedialyte, and once they were gone, her body convulsed with a painful shiver that made her whimper and dive beneath the blankets. He removed the shirt he’d just put on and his pajama pants to lie down behind her in his boxer-briefs, aligning his torso with her back. The all-encompassing hunger she’d experienced a few moments ago was gone, replaced with the newness of how anxiously he pulled her against him, his chin digging into her shoulder.

“Promise you’ll tell me if it gets worse…”

Why was he so goddamned _worried_ about her?

“If it gets over 104.5, you can take me to the ED,” she mumbled. “I promise. Now, let me sleep…”

Her sweater moved as he nodded, and she succumbed to the warmth of his barely-clothed body folding around her own.

* * *

_She was standing in a desert between town and the field hospital, the sand beneath her faded tan combat boots comprised of glittering gold._

_“You couldn’t save me, Bri…”_

_Renly stood in front of her, his body broken and bleeding from the wounds he’d suffered. A fountain of blood poured from where his left arm should have been, transforming into a pile of threaded rubies when they touched the golden granules at his feet. It was dazzling._

_“But you promised me. You said you’d look after him…”_

_Loras appeared beside him, staring at the ground, a decaying hole in his head from the bullet that he’d used to—_

_“Please…” she heard herself beg them. “I didn’t know. Nobody did.”_

_Renly turned his back on her, the only color in the barren landscape leaving with him, Loras slowly moving to follow his husband. When she made to go after them, she couldn’t move, noticing how far her feet were now buried in the gold._

_“Wait! Don’t leave me here…” she called, yet it was no use. They were out of sight._

_“Brienne…”_

_On the sand behind her laid Jaime, tremoring and pale with withdrawal._

_“Why didn’t you stop me…?” he moaned, his smooth, gilded skin blistering in the sun that beat down upon him. “Why did you leave me?”_

_“Jaime…” she whispered, her own sun-scalded body collapsing beneath her feet, the sweat continuing to pour even when she clawed at the golden sand to try to get to him, the sharp, tiny edges drawing blood from under her fingernails. “I didn’t mean to… I’m sorry.” Her sobs shook her body, hindering her progress, and her tears metamorphosed into sapphires as they pommeled the desert. “Forgive me…”_

_His fingers reached out to brush the tip of a sapphire shaped like the scar on her left inner thigh, and the second he touched it, he rippled into marble, and she screamed, the feeling of scorching shrapnel thrusting itself into her thigh overpowering her. She couldn’t help him, she had to help him—_

“Brienne!”

She opened her eyes to see his panicked, sea-foam waves crashing into her, his hands on either side of her face. The movement of his thumbs on her cheeks told her she’d been crying in her sleep, and that he’d finally witnessed one of her nightmares. The PTSD had its moments, but never had he seen that most vulnerable side of her.

The realization and embarrassment drew more tears from her, and she didn’t fight when he pulled her in and kissed her forehead, caressing her back through her sweater.

“You’re soaked...”

She tried to ignore his choice of words, eager as she was for his touch, and he leaned over to grab the thermometer from her nightstand, his nearly-naked body pushing into her overclothed one. Rather than do it himself, he handed it over to her so she could hold it under her tongue until it beeped a steady rhythm.

101.2 degrees; her fever had broken.

Sneaking a peek, he sighed with relief, removing it from her hand and holding her even more securely.

“What time is it?” she rasped.

He glanced at her clock.

“Just shy of 6 AM,” he crooned, his fingers combing through her hair for a minute or so. “Have you always had them? The nightmares…?”

A pause, then—

“Yes,” she confessed, “but not when I’m with you.”

His arms tightened around her, and her forehead found a home in his neck as she let the first few claps of thunder in the distance and the steady sound of his heart against her ear shelter her from those troubles.

* * *

The skies were overwrought with charge when she woke up later that morning, the lightning illuminating her room while the effervescent rain bounced off the pavement outside. She could smell the sinful scent of bacon coming from the kitchen, and the idea of solid food no longer caused her stomach to roll in apprehension. Before she got out of bed, she took her temperature one last time…

98.4 degrees. She’d be able to go back to work tomorrow.

The landline rang, and she listened to the answering machine in the living room as it took the call so she could doff her damp, sweat-soaked clothes in favor of something cleaner.

“Hi, Brienne, it’s Dr. Walda Frey from Riverlands Fertility Clinic.”

 _Shit._ Brienne rushed to pull on her athletic shorts and her favorite tee—

“Olenna mentioned you’d been sick, and I was calling to follow up on that and see how you were feeling.”

She stumbled through her doorway, into the living room, and to the table by the couch. The sizzle of food from the kitchen alerted her to the fact that Jaime could hear everything, and she dropped the phone in her haste to mute the woman.

“Anyway, I’ll be here until about three this afternoon, so—”

“Dr. Frey...!” she answered at last. “It’s so good to hear from you.”

“You too. I know you’re sick, and I really hate that for you, but we need to discuss it,” Dr. Frey continued. “Now, you told Olenna it was the flu. Did you take anything? Tamiflu, or Theraflu, or—”

“I only took Tylenol. I didn’t want to risk anything.”

There was a brief silence, punctuated by a ‘hmm’ on the other end of the line.

“And how high did your fever get exactly?”

Brienne sighed, sinking into the couch. She knew what the woman was thinking, and it broke her heart to admit it, but she was right; there was no way a zygote could have survived the battle her body had fought off a few hours ago.

“Let’s just say I think we’ll have to make another appointment,” she breathed, ignoring the torrent threatening her eyes.

“I’m so sorry.” The obstetrician cleared her throat. “If it’s any consolation, most fertile women have to go through several rounds before any real progress is made. It would have been a miracle for it to work the first time.”

“I know.”

Brienne noticed that the kitchen was eerily quiet.

“I’ll give you a call tomorrow when I’ve looked at my schedule,” she said methodically. “And thanks for checking on me, Dr. Frey. I appreciate it.”

After their well-wishes and goodbyes, she hung up the phone and went into the kitchen to make some tea, filling the kettle with water and placing it on the burner while purposefully disregarding the way Jaime was watching her.

“Why didn’t you tell me…?”

The way he asked about it caused her to feel like she’d shot him, or worse. Pinching her eyes shut, she turned to face him.

“I made the decision the day Jon was born,” she revealed. “It was only a few weeks before your sobriety party, and I was afraid that I’d detract from—”

“That’s not an excuse.”

She flinched at the ice in his voice, and to her horror, he went straight into her bedroom and started putting on his suit from the meeting the previous day, the pan of bacon forgotten. Her bottom lip broke under her teeth, and the earthy taste in her mouth spurred her on to go to him.

“Jaime…”

He didn’t answer, his features stoic as he buttoned his shirt, his gaze fixed on the wall in front of him.

“Please…” she begged. “I didn’t mean to—”

“It doesn’t matter,” he told her, grabbing his tie and moving to stand in front of her mirror and knot it. “It’s a choice that affects you and the man that—” He froze for a moment, his breath driving itself in and out of his chest. “I should go. There’s paperwork I have to see to.”

Every waking second of the last eighteen hours plowed through her chest, their feet dancing across the coals in her heart as he sat on her bed one last time, tying his dress shoes.

He was supposed to be excited. This man was her best friend, and he should be happy for her happiness. Why was he acting like she’d done something awful…?

“I don’t under—”

“I’ll see you Friday at dinner,” he said with finality, heading out of her bedroom and for the front door.

The disbelief broke through when he really did open the door and walk out onto the windy porch, and her feet carried her after him. By the time she reached him, her lungs burning from the exertion, she’d had to tear down the porch steps and into the deluge, her hand reaching out and wrenching him back to her. There was a note of astonishment in his eyes, and she caught herself hoping he was rethinking everything, praying he wouldn’t leave.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” he raised his voice over the rain. “Not when your fever’s—”

“Oh, _fuck_ the fever!”

His eyes grew wider, and she realized she didn’t know what else to say, the grey sky soaking them as they stood there.

“I thought you’d be happy for me…!” Her words caught in her throat, the accumulation of everything overwhelming her. “Adopting the Starks is the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I _hate_ that Ned and Cat had to die for me to see it, but I want to be a _real_ mother, Jaime. I want someone to look at me the way Bran looked at you when we went swimming; to support someone the way Stannis supports Shireen; to be a part of someone, and love them no matter what." What else could she say? "I turn thirty-five this year. I’m running out of time.”

The tears that fell were camouflaged by the droplets running down her cheeks, and somehow he still seemed offended.

“You’ve never met this man,” he accused. “How could you base such a serious decision on the profile of someone you’ve never met? He could be cruel. He could—”

“I spoke with him on the phone.” A flash of lightning showed her how deeply his frown was carving itself into his beautiful features. “He’s kind, Jaime. When he found out what I look like, he was glad. He knows that—”

“That you only snore when you sleep on your left side?” he pressed on. “That you brush your teeth _before_ you eat every morning? How when Sansa and Arya laugh at something together, you smile and look away so they won’t catch you? That you bite your bottom lip when you don’t know what to do? That you make your dad chicken carbonara when he’s missing your mom because her recipe was his favorite?”

He heaved in a breath when he was finished, and she gaped like a deer caught in headlights, paralyzed with fear that he’d noticed all these things; that he’d _cared_ enough to see them.

“This guy doesn’t _know_ you, Brienne. Not like I do.”

Wait. Was he really…?

“You sound jealous.”

It dawned over his face like a revelation, his eyes falling to her breasts, now pebbled and visible through the worn shirt she’d put on. She blushed when his pupils blew out ever so slightly, crossing her arms against her chest, and as a blast of chilly air punched her in the back, she started to shiver.

“We’ll talk about it later,” was all he said, and he jogged back into the rain, got in his car, and drove away.

* * *

But they didn’t talk about it. She didn’t reach out to him, thinking that when he was ready to discuss it, he’d let her know.

The invitation to the conference came, and the kids could tell from her lack of excitement that something had happened, and also knew better than to ask. Sansa finished the designs for the conference awards dinner Thursday night, and was prepared to give them to Jaime at Friday night dinner, yet Jaime didn’t attend, and Shae arrived late without Tyrion to accompany her, sparking speculation from everyone. Olenna did her best to keep the conversation moving, and succeeded to a degree. Brienne simply stayed silent, her lack of appetite increasing with every carefully constructed detour around the true question everyone wanted to know the answer to:

_What had happened between them?_

As everyone tidied up following dinner, Sandor and Margaery left, each of them giving her the warm, unconditional hugs she cherished so much. Once they’d gone, Shae pulled Sansa aside and asked for her sketch pad. The disappointment on Sansa’s face as she handed it over spoke volumes.

“Will you make sure Jaime sees them?” the teenager requested meekly. “I wanted his opinion on—Well, nevermind. It’s not important.”

Shae cocked an eyebrow, stealing a glance at Brienne.

“I’ll do my best.”

The petite woman approached her when the kids went back into the kitchen.

“Are you all right?”

Despite the tears that threatened her with their fists in her gut, Brienne put on a brave smile she would have fallen for.

“I’m fine.”

Shae gave her a doubtful look.

“Tyrion said he’ll go with him to AA until the conference. He thinks the distance might be good for both of you.”

Her heart stopped.

No.

 _No_.

He wouldn’t have. She couldn’t mean he’d—

“He’s fine. He’s just having a hard time with it,” she soothed, her German accent giving her a comforting edge as the woman leaned forward and took her hand. “You made the decision that was right for _you,_ and you have every right to feel hurt by his response. I didn’t tell Tyrion because it wasn’t my place, and he understands that… But even _I_ thought you’d at least tell Jaime. Why didn’t you?”

Brienne shook her head, her tears breaking through.

“I don’t know. I guess…” She wiped her cheeks with her free hand. “I knew that if I mentioned it, he’d question me about it, and I didn’t want to second-guess myself.”

“Aren’t you doing that anyway?”

A sob escaped her then, and Shae wrapped her arms around her waist, rubbing her back as she cried without restraint for the first time since the argument.

After all, if anyone knew what it meant to care about a Lannister, it was Shae.

* * *

She never saw him at work the following week. His name would appear on paperwork in front of her, and she’d sign every form without reading them to rid herself of his memory and add them to the stack.

The one day she bumped into Pod and he mentioned that Jaime seemed sullen, she snapped at him. It was rude of her, and completely unprofessional, and when she’d made it back to her desk to see an ‘I’m sorry’ sticky note placed on a small box of lemon cakes from Hot Pie’s in his hand, the guilt she felt at her treatment of the young man ate away at her.

She texted him an apology later that afternoon, offering an invitation to Friday night dinner that week. He politely declined in favor of his first date with Lyanna Mormont, the oncology department’s first-year resident. Pod was soft-hearted and polite, and Dr. Mormont was opinionated and foul-mouthed. Everyone was delighted to see where it would go, and somehow all she could think about was Jaime.

_“You really don’t screw around, do you?”_

The words he’d said to her during their first morning at work sliced through her as surely as a scalpel, and she left early to avoid any more reminders.

It was time to apply to work somewhere else, chief or no chief.

* * *

At the start of the second week, she had to call Dr. Frey and lie, saying she’d been so busy she hadn’t had a chance to call back about another appointment. Brienne decided she wasn’t ready to try again, and Dr. Frey told her that was fine.

It didn’t feel like it, especially when the necklace on her nightstand glittered beside the twice-dead camellias he’d brought her when she was sick.

She threw the vase and the flowers into the dumpster outside, and the necklace she’d worn with pride for almost a year was tossed into the topmost drawer of her dresser and out of sight.

* * *

The Tuesday before the conference began on Thursday, she was interviewed for a position at a reputable hospital across the river in Virginia, and it went remarkably well. It seemed like a healthy work environment, and though it wouldn’t pay as much as Tywin Lannister did, they would only require thirty-six hours a week… Not to mention they allowed six full months of maternity leave, which was unheard of in the United States.

Wednesday morning, she and Tywin walked past one another, and his gaze fell to her bare collarbone. His eyebrow twitched as he bowed his head at her in acknowledgement. Perhaps he knew she’d interviewed for another hospital.

Perhaps he didn’t blame her for it.

* * *

The garment bags with a golden ‘L’ embroidered on the front were delivered that evening, and even Arya was glad to try her full-length romper on. They ran downstairs in their bare feet to show her, Sansa twirling in a circle, the silver skirt flowing about her legs like rivulets of the Potomac River.

They were gorgeous, and when the girls begged her to try hers on, she obliged. They tugged her up the stairs, helping her brush the train out to the side so she could slip her legs into the pants. Sansa zipped her up, a grin on her breathtaking face.

“It’s perfect.”

Brienne turned around to see it in the mirror, the straight-legged, ankle-length pants giving her a lean shape and the attached train lending her a waist she didn’t usually have. Each girl wrapped an arm around her, and she draped hers across their shoulders. As the three of them stood there, their grey and crimson ensembles wove into a tree of its own, displaying that they were a family in a visual sense, not just a legal one.

Pizza was ordered, and as they all ate sitting on the couch and in the recliner, watching ‘Forrest Gump’ (one of her father’s favorites, because Jenny looked like her mother had) her phone lit up with a text from Jaime.

“Be there at 8? Long drive.”

She only sent him a ‘sure’ in response, then put her phone on ‘do not disturb’ for the rest of the evening.

* * *

They had already loaded the trunk, and the girls were chatting away in the back seat, so bright and cheerful that Brienne was forced to take another sip of coffee from her thermos, unable to consider how the nine-hour car ride might affect them all. She had situated her SUV on the street, vacating her spot for Jaime’s Lexus, which arrived at precisely 8 AM. When he withdrew a suit bag and a luggage case, she popped the trunk for him, and at the sound of it slamming shut, Sansa and Arya ceased speaking.

Jaime climbed into the passenger seat, a tray of three coffee drinks in one hand and a bag of doughnuts in the other.

“Morning,” he said to the girls, holding the bag out to them.

They eagerly snatched it away and dug through it, and he chuckled.

“You’re welcome…”

“Thank you,” Arya muttered, though it was obvious she meant it.

“Are the coffees for us too?” Sansa’s hopeful voice asked.

He grinned, taking the tray and keeping it steady as they each took a frozen coffee with whipped cream on top. That was when he turned to look at Brienne, offering her the latte until she lifted the thermos in response. She could have sworn she saw his shoulders slouch a little before he nodded, placing it on the floorboard and buckling up as she pulled away from the curb, putting on her sunglasses.

The girls carried the conversation until lunchtime, after which they fell asleep, Sansa’s phone still hooked up to the auxiliary port, her playlist echoing through the speakers. From the first snore, the air in the vehicle grew thick with unsaid words, but Brienne wouldn’t budge; she wasn't responsible for the weeks of radio silence. That was on him.

About an hour later, they drove out of North Carolina, and a song with a hint of synthesizer began to play.

_So, I heard you fell for somebody else_

_And at first, I thought it was a lie…_

Hyle’s face swept through her mind like wildfire, and she raised the phone to try to skip the song, but it was locked.

_I took all my things that make sounds_

_The rest I can do without…_

The way Margaery had talked to her about him when her leg was healing in the hospital in Iraq, and how he hadn’t done anything with this other girl… It was obvious he had feelings for her, though, and she should be prepared for that when she got home.

She hadn’t been prepared for any of it. It started with the loose hug at the airport…

_I don’t want your body_

_But I hate to think about you with somebody else…_

Hyle had introduced her to his ‘best friend’ that first night at dinner, though Brienne had it in her head that the dinner was supposed to be a date between the two of them alone. After all, she’d been away for the last six years; was it a crime to want the evening alone with her fiancé?

_Our love has gone cold_

_You’re intertwining your soul with somebody else…_

Perhaps worst of all was Brienne still cared about Hyle, even when he clearly didn’t love her anymore. After he forgot about a family meal with her father in lieu of a movie with his ‘friend’, she took all his things and placed them in boxes by the door, that visceral embarrassment and Renly’s words piercing her skull.

_“He’s a narcissistic jerk who thinks he’s better than everyone he’s ever met, and you’re settling for him when you know you’re not happy. You deserve someone better than that; someone who can make you happy.”_

Tears formed behind her eyes at the recollection of her best friend; she wished more than anything she could talk to him about the last few weeks.

_I’m looking through you while you’re looking through your phone_

_And then leaving with somebody else…_

The break-up had been a brutal fight, and he’d said hateful things to her about how lucky she was to have him, even if he didn’t love her anymore. In the end, it was the condescending tone he’d used to talk about how her father still mourned her mother even though she’d been dead for so long that threw her over the edge.

_“If that’s what you want from me, you won’t get it.”_

She’d spent a total of six years overseas working toward her licensure and board certification. Every single field hospital she’d studied at had been in a combat zone, and she was lucky to have served as long as she had with the only injury she’d received. But to know that this man, to whom she’d given so much of herself, wouldn’t have thought of her years later, and missed her had she died…

_No, I don’t want your body_

_But I’m picturing your body with somebody else…_

The tears spilled over, and she inhaled, tweaking her facial muscles so that the edges of her sunglasses would catch them. She didn’t want Jaime to see any more of her than he already had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (*dodges arrows and pitchforks*) I said it was a slow burn! 
> 
> This chapter was inspired by both 'Landed' by Ben Folds (Jaime's perspective as he takes care of her, how different she is than Cersei) and 'Somebody Else' by The 1975, whose lyrics are actually partially listed here. 
> 
> Kudos, comments, and bookmarks appreciated. They fuel me to write more quickly, especially as my job becomes more hectic toward the holiday season. ;) Hope you liked it, and the best news? I've already started the next chapter! (*punches the air Bender-style*)


	17. Outlined in Chalk - Jaime VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime takes a risk (or several).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this one is a long one too. Sorry, but also not sorry.
> 
> Hope to have another one up by Friday night! My best friends are getting married this coming weekend, so I might be off the radar for a hot minute. We shall see. 
> 
> In the meantime, enjoy this little bit of... Something. ;)

_“You’re a fucking idiot.”_

_Jaime merely shrugged._

_“Cersei always said I was the stupidest Lannister,” he muttered. “It was the last thing she said to me before we went to the bar that night. Remember?”_

_“Of course_ , _I remember,” Tyrion grumbled. “You stayed drunk for five years. But you’re_ sure _you didn’t see this coming? Jaime, she’s a wizard_ _when it comes to children. The Starks worship her, the Baratheon girl is smitten with her… Even Tommen and Myrcella adored her as soon as they met her.”_

_While he flinched at the mention of their names, he couldn’t deny the truth in it._

_“Is it possible that maybe you saw it coming, but…” His brother hesitated. “Perhaps you had someone else in mind for her?”_

_Jaime scowled._

_“What are you trying to say?”_

_It was Tyrion’s turn to shrug._

_“We all know how much you care about her,” he elaborated. “Is it so hard to believe that instead of this stranger she’s chosen, you were hoping she’d choose_ you _instead?”_

As he glanced over at her from the passenger seat, noting the lone tear that had slipped beyond the rim of her sunglasses, he realized his brother was right.

Jaime knew he loved her, that he _wanted_ her; the way they’d tussled on the bed while she was feverish, her sapphire eyes pooling with onyx at the pressure of his pelvis on hers… _Fuck_. His jeans began to grow tighter at the thought of how warm she’d been. If he wasn’t performing surgeries or answering emails these last few weeks, he was thinking back to the hours he’d spent holding her, watching her as she slept, wondering what it would be like to kiss her awake, roll her beneath him, and love her into incoherence until the sun dampened the streetlamps, her cries of rapture blending with the chirping birds outside her window.

The fact that another man, someone she’d never met, had been given access to her body in a similar way… It destroyed him.

Why couldn’t she bring herself to tell him the true reason why she hadn’t talked with him about the insemination, and why had she used his sobriety celebration as an excuse? _That_ betrayal had tumbled around his head the same way whiskey would swirl around cubes of ice every time he’d reached for his phone to talk to her, so he’d lock the device and put it back on his nightstand, tamping his emotions down in order to avoid thinking about alcohol more than he already had since the argument.

And now, he had four days of nothing but her ahead of him. It was going to be a difficult weekend.

* * *

There was a fleeting moment when they were checking into the hotel that he thought they might be okay.

Tywin had reserved a two-bed room under the girls’ names, but a one-bed room under theirs. The girls shared apprehensive looks, and Sansa asked the attendant in the most mature voice she could muster if there was any way the assignments could be switched—

“It’s fine,” Brienne clarified, taking the small envelope with their room keycards and heading for the elevators, her rolling bag in tow.

They all followed her without question.

Sansa ‘oohed’ and ‘ahhed’ over the elegance of the nineteenth-century lobby, and Arya gasped when she saw the huge swimming pool as they headed down the hall. Brienne practically had to steer her away from the door so the teenager wouldn’t dive in with her clothes on, and Jaime was struck with the overwhelming urge to pull both girls close to him. To have gone through as much as they had, and still retain that specific spark of life all children lose somewhere in their teenage years, was nothing short of a miracle… And, perhaps, the result of Brienne’s incredible parenting skills.

God, he’d missed their bright, shining faces so much.

They dropped the girls off at their room, which was right across the hall from their own, and promised to meet them in the hall in an hour for dinner at a local seafood restaurant before their door shut behind them. Brienne busied herself with hanging up her garment bag, unpacking her miniscule amount of toiletries, and choosing the side of the bed closest to the bathroom and the door. She didn’t acknowledge him once, stepping into the bathroom and cranking on the shower, so he plopped onto the mattress and turned on the television.

He noticed, however, that she didn’t completely shut the door, just as she never had in their— _her_ —bedroom, and when she was through, she reentered in only a towel, her long legs left entirely bare, her muscled ass doing its best to peek out at him. The large scar on her left inner thigh was visible and pink from where she’d scrubbed the day’s ride from her skin. Not that he’d never seen her so bare before; she’d worn only a towel after many a shower at Evenfall. Those towels had always covered her with decency, though, whereas here—

“You know I hate it when people stare at me.”

His eyes immediately focused on the television screen again.

“Sorry, I didn’t—I’m, I mean…”

 _Jesus._  

Sitting up, he reached into his briefcase and pulled out his laptop. He could at least send some emails while he was here.

“I’m heading down to the lounge for a few.”

She glowered at him in her nearly-naked glory as he stood and walked past her, the way the towel was pinching her petite breasts together causing his throat to go dry. How had he seen her so many times like this, but never truly _seen_ her?

“We’re meeting the girls in half an hour—”

“I’ll be back in time,” he assured her.

He stepped out into the hall, and he paused when he thought he heard her say his name, but after a moment in which he convinced himself he’d imagined it, he moved forward, letting the door close between them.

Instead of work emails, he ended up calling an old college connection that now worked in the theatre department at SCAD. When he asked Olyvar if he could give a one-on-one tour of the campus to a prospective fashion design student the following morning, the middle-aged man was through the roof and accepted straightaway, launching into a diatribe of all the friends he could connect her with in that section of the school.

Jaime revealed this information to Sansa as they were being seated for dinner, and she beamed with joy, throwing her arms around his neck. Brienne, on the other hand, wasn’t thrilled with the idea.

“We were going to go for a public tour,” she reminded the teenager, “that way you could see more of the school.”

“I know,” Sansa conceded, “but this way I can meet with the faculty and get _actual_ answers to my questions. Learn what it would really be like.”

Brienne sighed, nodded, and continued eating her flame-broiled oysters. She tried to smile the next time they locked eyes, but it wasn’t until they were alone later that evening, dressing for bed, that she spoke to him again.

“You didn’t have to go through all that trouble,” she said stoically. “She _is_ applying to other schools. There’s no guarantee she’ll even like it here…”

Trust her to turn a compliment into an insult.

More roughly than he’d intended, he yanked the comforter back, sitting on the bed in his boxers and white tee, his head in his hands.

“I thought I was being helpful,” he bit out. “Don’t worry. Next time I want to do something to make the kids happy, I’ll run it by you first.”

“Jaime…”

Once he’d plugged his phone into its charger, he laid down, turning out his lamp and wordlessly requesting her silence. He’d experienced as much tension as he could handle without a drink in his hand.

While he couldn’t sleep, he could hear her crying, the mattress tremoring beneath her sobs, and the sound of it split the individual atoms of his heart apart with inconceivable force. His words had been cruel, and he knew it, but rather than reach out to her, which would embarrass her _and_ piss her off, he remained where he was, making himself listen to her distress as an excruciating reminder that things had changed… And, perhaps, not for the better. He loved her, and in the end, it didn’t matter.

Then again, it never had before, had it?

* * *

They had missed dinner with their colleagues the previous evening in order to dine with the girls, much to Tywin’s chagrin, so he cornered them all as they were finishing breakfast and demanded that the two of them be present for at least four different lectures that afternoon or evening.

“You are here on business for the hospital. I expect you to present yourselves as such.”

His father’s piercing gaze settled on Brienne, who must have seen how hers were red-rimmed, her jaw set against him, because he blinked in surprise.

“Major Tarth, you're—”

She stood abruptly, tossing her napkin onto her plate.

“We should head over if we’re going to be on time,” she told them, looking at the girls. “It’s a twenty-minute walk.”

They obediently rose from their chairs, trailing behind her as she left the dining area for the lobby. Tywin cocked an eyebrow at him, no doubt expecting some sort of explanation for her behavior. Jaime simply pressed his lips together and bowed his head, excusing himself. He refused to give his father the satisfaction of knowing he’d fucked up the best thing in his life.

* * *

Everything about the campus brought a smile to Sansa’s face, and everyone she met was charmed by her wisdom and gentle heart, despite the damp Savannah heat boring down on them. The only negative part of the situation was the number of times complete strangers assumed Brienne was his girlfriend, or (on one occasion) his wife.

At one point, he saw her answer her phone, stepping away from them with an unreadable expression while Sansa and Arya happily chatted with a few of the design students. Olyvar nudged his arm with an elbow, drawing his attention back to the present.

“So, if you’re not dating her, and you’re not fucking her, what are you doing here?” he challenged.

Jaime didn’t have an answer for him.

* * *

They meandered through Forsyth Park for an hour or two following the tour, grabbing a bite to eat at a food truck as Sansa rattled on and on about how it would be so lovely to attend the school, the summer sunlight sieving through the live oak leaves, illuminating her Tully-blue eyes. Her red hair tangoed with the breeze that swept them all up in its midst, and Jaime knew without a doubt that this was where the girl should go to school.

“She’d be so happy here,” he mumbled to himself.  

“You don’t get to decide that for her.”

He stopped in his tracks and glared at the tall, obscenely stubborn person he knew all too well.

“Thankfully, neither do you.”

Her lips parted like he’d slapped her with his comment, and he walked away, the direction of the breeze changing and pushing against his chest with its smooth hands. He couldn’t go back, no matter how much he might have wanted to.

* * *

The girls chose to spend the remainder of the afternoon at the hotel pool while Jaime and Brienne selected the most interesting lectures they could possibly attend from the list with which they’d been provided. He had dressed in his crimson suit jacket, and she had donned the navy-blue pants of the suit he loved to see her wear, choosing to wear only a blouse with it instead of the blazer. It felt like an olive branch at first, but the tone in which she spoke was strictly professional, and she never exchanged words with him unless absolutely necessary.

By the end of the second presentation, he couldn’t take the torture anymore, his father be damned.

They left the hotel ballroom, and she was asking him if he thought they should switch from the lecture on septicemia to the one on C-sections instead when he brushed right by her and continued down the hall.

Once he made it to their room without incident, he collapsed on his side of the bed, gritting his teeth and clutching the freshly-laundered sheets so tightly he thought his knuckles might pop out of his skin.

He wanted a drink. He _needed_ a drink.

At that very moment, his phone began to buzz in his pocket, and he pulled it out, peeking at the number, half-expecting it to be her or his father, but it was Bran.

“Hey,” he answered, doing his best to steel his breath as he put the boy on speaker to undo the knot of his tie. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, it’s fine,” the boy said. “I just wanted to ask you a question.”

Jaime swallowed the lump in his throat, his hands moving from his neck to the pillow above his head.

“You should probably talk to your mom about it first, whatever it is.”

Bran went silent for a second, then—

“It’s about a girl,” he admitted. “I don’t think she’d know the best answer…”

He chuckled.

“Not sure if you’ve noticed, but I’m not exactly an expert. You’re better off asking your grandfather.”

“But grandpa said I should ask you…”

Of course he did.

“All right, then,” Jaime sighed. “What is it?”

“How do you know if you love someone?”

Jaime couldn’t have been less stupefied if a train had plowed through the room, cleaving him in two like the damsel he felt himself to be all of a sudden.

“I don’t know if I have the answer for that,” he responded. “It’s different for everyone.”

“Different how?” the boy inquired.

His palms dug into his eyes before he formulated the words.

“I’ve only ever loved two women,” he confessed. “One made me hate myself, and I still would have done anything to call her mine. I didn’t truly love her beyond my teenage years, but in some sick way, I kept loving the idea of her.”

“And the second one…?”

Jaime could see her face; her sapphire eyes sparkling back at him from his mother’s barrel chair, the family necklace around her neck… He rolled over with the phone, putting his back to the door.

“She’s the complete opposite. Instead of wanting her to be _mine_ , there’s nothing I wouldn’t give to be _hers_. She makes me proud to be who I am. I think…” He opened his eyes, staring out the window. “I _hope_ , that I’ve made her feel that way too.” A contemplative pause came from the other end of the phone. “So, do you think you love Shireen? That is why you called, isn’t it?”

“Maybe. I need to think about it.”

He smirked.

“Don’t think _too_ hard about it, okay?” he suggested. “And don’t let anyone tell you you’re too young to feel that way. When people told me that at your age, I wanted to punch them in the face.”

Bran laughed, thanked him, and they were about to hang up when—

“Jaime?”

“Yeah?”

“It _is_ Mom, isn’t it? The second woman?”

He didn’t have it in him to lie to the boy, so he inhaled, and exhaled…

“Yes,” he confirmed. “It’s her.”

Silence.

“I miss seeing you at dinner,” Bran said quietly, “and talking to Tyrion about books. Do you think…”

The boy trailed off, and Jaime knew what he was going to ask, even as the sound of someone in heels ambling up to the door bounced to the back of his mind.

“I don’t know what happened between you and Mom, but you’re going to work it out, right? It’s going to be okay…?”

‘Work it out’. Now, _that_ was something to hear, coming from a boy of thirteen.

“I don’t know,” he replied honestly, a wave of compromise bathing him from his toes to the roots of his hair. “But if it isn’t, it won’t be for lack of trying.”

Jaime could hear Bran grin into the phone, and rolled over onto his back to see Brienne standing there, keycard in one hand, something loosely held in the other, her features ablaze with righteous anger.

He was more than aware that he was in deep shit, and somehow he still had the wherewithal to place a finger over his lips so Bran wouldn’t hear her.

“So, you’ll talk to her?” the boy posed.

“Yeah.”

“Promise?”

Her hands clenched into fists, and he was actually worried about what would happen when he said the words in front of her.

“I promise,” he agreed.

A quick goodbye was said, and Jaime barely had time to sit up and touch the ‘end call’ button when—

“How _dare_ you…!” she accused. “He’s thirteen. He doesn’t need you to—”

“Actually, he called me,” he said evenly. “And before you jump down my throat, I told him he should have called you instead, but he had a question about girls.”

Some of the rage left her then; he saw it in the way her shoulders relaxed ever so slightly. Her arms crossed themselves against her chest, and he did his best to ignore the way she jutted her chin out in the fake confidence he’d grown to love.

“Why did you leave me down there?”

He stood and crossed to the room’s coffee pot, desperate to hold a mug of something in his hand while he had this conversation. The decaf grounds had barely been dumped into the filter when she launched.

“Do you know how embarrassing it is for people to stare at you not just because your coworker, someone _you supervise,_ walks out of a conference lecture seething like a madman, but because you look like _I_ do?”

His fingers stilled as he reached for the pot, eventually grasping it and heading into the bathroom to fill it at the sink.

“I’m used to the jeers,” she soldiered on, “and words about my appearance don’t hurt me anymore. But to stand there, and hear them say that they’d walk away too, if their boss was a woman that looked like me…” Her voice tightened; a sign he knew by now meant she was holding back tears. “It’s not fair.”

Those unbelievable, misogynistic fuckheads had the _nerve_ to say something like that where she could hear them…?

His eyes met hers in disbelief when the dam broke, and he instinctively went to her, putting the pot of water down on the table in favor of bracing her arms with his hands. The corners of her mouth were downturned, and her nostrils flared as each sob shook her body.

“You know I don’t see you that way, don’t you?”

She nodded, but when he moved to hold her, she stepped back, her hand outstretched between them, the sobriety coin he’d given her splaying itself across her roughened palm.

The way his chest seized, the agony of each breath as it failed to draw air into his lungs… She might as well have driven a stake through his heart.

“What are you doing…?” he cautioned.

Her hand advanced into the void caused by their bodies, and he moved away from it.

“When you gave me this, you told me to remember that I deserve the same effort I gave you,” she managed to say. “I can’t keep it anymore. Not after—”

“Don’t.”

Her expression hardened, the tears ceasing to run.

“Jaime, I _couldn’t_ tell you about it,” she pleaded. “Your opinion matters to me. It matters more than anyone else’s, and I wanted it so _badly_. I was terrified that if I told you, and you disagreed—”

“Why would I disagree with it?” he questioned.

She shrugged, looking away as a tear fell from her jaw, dampening the carpet beneath her feet.

“I don’t know… But you did.”

As she wiped her cheeks in the silence that followed, he understood he’d played every fear she’d had into reality. Jealous or not, he had no right to behave the way he had. They weren’t a couple, despite what everyone at SCAD had believed earlier that morning; what gave him the power to argue with her about a decision she’d made for her own happiness?

“I’m sorry,” he stated, meaning it. “I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did. When I’m hurt, I lash out.”

An eyebrow climbed her forehead.

“How did I—”

“You used my sobriety as an excuse not to tell me,” he explained.

Her jaw slackened, and he knew she recognized what she’d done when she bit her bottom lip a moment later.

“It’s okay,” he said, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible while he sat on the edge of the bed. “Most people don’t think about it like we do. It’s…” How could he phrase it so that she wouldn’t blame herself? “It’s normal to forget.”

“It shouldn’t be.”

There were seconds brimming with stillness behind those words, and he stayed there, watching as the southern sunshine poured into their window and saturated her body, its curves painting the purity of the wall with iniquitous shadow as she brushed her thumb against the coin.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He extended a hand to her, and for a second, he wasn’t sure she’d take it. When she did, every bone in his body ached to hold her against him, so he gently pulled her to sit on the bed beside him, his arms enveloping her as her cheek rested on his shoulder.

“You said you ‘wanted’ it. Past tense,” he noted, waiting for her answer.

He felt her inhale a shaky breath.

“I still want it. I just…” Her grip on the coin strengthened against his side. “I’d like to hold off for a while, but I don’t think I can afford to.”

“Do you want to hear what I think?”

She tilted her head back to see him, her blue, blue eyes reaching that cavern within him that could only be illuminated by the flecks of golden light he saw reflected there. When she nodded in response, those oceans flitted to his lips. The overpowering urge to cover her own mouth with his hit him with the subtlety of a cannonball.

“There _are_ other options if you wanted to wait,” he began, compelling his thoughts to the issue at hand. “You could have them freeze some of your eggs, try in vitro fertilization further down the road if the natural solution isn’t enough.”

She blinked.

“It would be more expensive, though.”

“Believe it or not, the procedure, and everything else you’d need for it, is covered under our insurance,” he expounded. “Mom had to go through IVF with Tyrion, and as much as he’d like to deny it, the availability of the procedure was something my father was always thankful for. It’s been an option for every woman in the company since he took over in 1975.”

The smirk that tugged on her features dazzled him.

“So, _you_ think I should wait…?”

His thumb stroked the arm it held through her blouse, silently begging her to wait for him; to let _him_ be that person.

“I think you should do what’s best for you,” he reiterated, “but there _are_ other options if you’d like to wait.”

The tension left her body, and she pulled away to study the coin in her hand. The fact that he’d hurt her enough to feel like she couldn’t keep it, like it was something she could give back to him—

“It’s yours, you know,” he declared, reaching over and covering that hand with his own. “It will _always_ be yours.”

Her fingers curled around his.

“I took it with me,” she revealed. “I was holding it when Dr. Frey did the procedure.”

The rhythm of his respirations stuttered.

“Did it help?”

She gave him a half-hearted smile.

“It would have been better if you were there.”

His heart did its best to leap from his throat, words he was entirely unprepared to say squashing themselves down as he brought their joined hands to his lips, lightly pressing a kiss to the back of hers.

“Maybe next time, I will be.”

Something in her gaze shifted at his words, and soon she was staring at him like he was the eighth wonder of the world, and she was the first explorer to find him.

In many ways, she had been.

He released her hand to brush his knuckles against her face, reveling in its familiarity; the freckles that dusted her cheekbones and nose; the way her lips could slope into the most elated grin or bear the weight of her teeth when she was anxious; how they faintly parted as he leaned closer, his hand cupping her jaw, her sapphire seas churning with—

A firm knock on the door froze them that way, the tips of their noses brushing as the stirred air between them settled with the second, more insistent knock. Rather than ignore the almost of the situation, Jaime closed the distance, tenderly kissing her cheek as he stood.

He opened the door to see Tywin standing there, a disapproving sneer on his face, and Jaime glanced back at Brienne. She was restraining a smile, her feet already carrying her past them and into the hallway. Tywin’s scowl dissolved into an exasperated sigh, standing aside so Jaime could jog after her.

He did his best to redo his tie in the elevator without a mirror, and when Brienne eventually swatted his hands away to tie it herself, he caught a glimpse of his father’s smirk over her shoulder.

Smug bastard.

* * *

They hadn’t spoken of the near-kiss, but the conversation and laughs they shared had certainly let the girls know that all was well at dinner. In fact, Sansa and Arya insisted on crashing in _their_ bed and ordering room service dessert while they switched on the television, settling on the channel that was playing reruns of ‘Parks and Recreation’. Chocolate cake crumbs littered the comforter an hour later, and as the girls’ energy dwindled, Brienne began to nod off, her head finding its way onto his shoulder. He put his arm around her, and when Arya noticed, she nudged her sister, and they said goodnight and left for their room.

He had a restful night for the first time since she’d had the flu, and he reveled in how sweetly she wove her fingers between his own in her sleep, her head nestling itself into his chest. It made him feel safe, of all things, to have her like this; to hold her like this.

As a dreamless slumber claimed him, he yearned for her to feel that same safety.

* * *

“I applied for another job.”

They were watching the girls from beneath an oversized umbrella by the grass as they played along the surf of Tarth in the late morning sun, the sand tangling with their toes, their laughter cleansing the ocean whose waves they repeatedly ran into. At Brienne’s admission, Jaime laid back down on their beach blanket, an arm draping across his face to shield what was likely a sour expression at the thought of her not working at Baelor anymore; at the realization that he’d hurt her so badly, so viscerally, that she felt the need to leave a job she enjoyed.

“Is that who called you at SCAD?” he ventured, peeking at her.

She nodded.

“I interviewed for them Tuesday,” she continued, wrapping her arms around her knees. “They were kind enough. Asked some good questions... When I mentioned the possibility of a baby, they were willing to give me six months paid maternity leave.”

He gave into the temptation her mostly-bare back presented him with, reaching out and stroking it with his fingers. The skin developed tiny, textured bumps at his touch, and he silently thanked whoever had designed the only swimsuit she owned for the gorgeous display of muscle and flesh in front of him.

“It went well, then.”

She peered at him over her shoulder.

“They offered it to me.”

_Oh._

His hand abandoned her skin, and she curled further into herself.

“And…?” he pressed, raising himself to his elbows. “Are you going to take it?”

She opened her mouth to answer when the girls came rushing up, beckoning her to come look at the sandcastle they’d been working on here and there. As she followed them down to the tide-soaked sand to take photos of them beside a makeshift Winterfell, the family home they’d been forced to leave in order to move in with Brienne, he had an idea.

* * *

Standing there, in the doorway of Brienne’s childhood bedroom, in the house her father couldn’t bring himself to sell… It was the perfect time and place to bring it up.

“Sansa really wants to go to SCAD, doesn’t she?” he mused.

Brienne smiled wistfully, sitting on the edge of the bed, taking the decades-old, well-loved shark pillow from the headboard and examining it.

“It was her second choice behind Georgetown,” she recalled. “When I told her location didn’t matter, as long as she was happy and safe, she immediately started researching SCAD instead…”

Her fingernails traced the seams of the shark’s teeth in contemplation, her smile dissolving. He crossed to stand in front of her, understanding the dilemma her mind was wading through.

“You were hoping she’d choose Georgetown so she could be closer to home.”

When she didn’t answer, he kneeled in front of her, taking the shark and placing it back on the bed so he could clasp her hands in his.

“I’m not her father, and I know I don’t get any say in this…” He drew a deep breath that tickled his heartstrings. “But if she gets in, would you feel better about it if she lived here, in Tarth?”

Her eyes flew wide in astonishment.

“I hadn’t even thought of that.”

A smile grew across his face more rapidly than a weed.

“You’d be happier about it then, right?” he assumed, squeezing her hands.

“Of course, but would _she_ be happy with it?” Brienne countered. “To deal with the traffic, the parking permit… She’d need to have a car. How could she stay here by herself? It would have to be cleaned every week, I’d have to hire a housekeeper to—”

“Send your dad to stay with her during the school year.” She opened her mouth to protest— “We both know it would be good for him, and if it’s for one of the kids, he’ll say yes.”

He could see the wheels inside her head slowing, their conversation putting her at ease.

“How will I manage all of it?” she murmured. “Bran and Arya will still be at home, and if I have a baby…”

His gaze fell to their hands, and he had no idea where he found the courage within himself to suggest it, but—

“I could move into the guest room.”

He swallowed hard, the gravity of what he’d alluded to striking him. Unable to bear it when she didn’t give him an answer after a moment, or an easy let-down, he adjusted his feet so he could stand—

“It’s painful, you know.”

He froze, looking at her as she also stood, her brow furrowed.

“What?” he demanded.

Blessing of all blessings, she cupped his face with her warm hands, and he almost melted to the floor at her touch, the stalwart lines above her nose robbing him of breath and reason.

“How you can give so much of yourself to me, but expect absolutely nothing in return.”

He faltered on his feet, her searching stare grounding him.

“You’re a good man. I know you don’t see yourself that way, but you _are_.” She shifted her weight so their faces were inches apart. “I’m not her, Jaime. There will never be a time when you give me the best side of yourself, and I throw it away like it means nothing, because it means _everything_ to me.”

Pressure built behind his eyes; she wasn’t lying, and she didn’t want something from him. In fact, he was fairly certain that if he asked, she would give him the world.

That was a dangerous line of thought.

“Move in,” she told him, and his stomach rolled inward on itself. “Please. Even if Sansa goes to Georgetown, I want you in the house with me. With us.”

His left hand brought itself to cover her right, and he caressed the sensitive skin on the back of it as he nodded, the tears spilling over. Her arms went around him in an instant, and he rose to his toes to hold her even more securely, her damp, braided hair branding a chain of ocean spray into his shirt over where his heart beat solely for her.

He hoped they would visit this magical, exquisite place again soon.

* * *

Once they got back to the hotel, they attended a lecture on the cons of robotic technology for use in wide-range surgeries, a topic they were both interested in, after which Sansa texted Brienne to tell her it was time to get ready for the awards dinner that evening.

“It’s not for two hours…!” she growled, grabbing her garment bag and her makeup pouch.

Jaime chortled, handing her the simple black flats she’d chosen to wear, wishing he’d flipped through the designs before he’d given them over to Donyse so he’d know what she would look like when Sansa was finished. Both his hands then went to her arms to steady her.

“Meet you in the hall at 6:45?”

He smirked when she nodded, aware that no matter what she wore to the dinner, it would dim in comparison to the small smile she wore after he kissed her cheek.

A knock on the door shook them from the intimacy of the moment.

“Brienne, come _on…!”_ It was Arya. “Sansa’s about to drive me _insane!”_

They both chuckled at the girl’s tone.

“See you soon,” he teased, and she opened the door with that same small smile and retreated into the girls’ room with Arya.

As the door closed, Jaime found himself hoping she’d talk with the girls while they got ready, and that they’d like the idea of him moving into Evenfall as much as he did.

* * *

He was in the hallway at 6:42, the crimson tie and grey suit Donyse had chosen for him working well to subdue his Lannister name. The rustle and raised voices coming from behind their door amused him, and when he knocked a few minutes later, and the girls opened it, he was rendered speechless.

Arya was wearing a strapless, full-length satin romper that cinched at her waist, exaggerating the dark hair that hung about her face in waves. The fabric was silver at the top, fading into an innocent white at the bottom, and a white wolf had been embroidered across her waist, howling out to the side, the feature only amplified by the cropped black jacket she wore. Her heels gave her a dangerous edge, and Jaime couldn’t remember a time when the girl had seemed more at ease in her own skin outside of a swimming pool.

As Sansa moved to stand beside her sister, the solid silver chiffon skirt swirling about her legs, Jaime noticed how the white branches of a tree had been sewn diagonally across the sleeveless torso of the bodice. Several scarlet leaves started to appear as the longest branch swayed over her waist and toward her shoulder, ending with a single leaf that had been sewn into the top of the high neck. Her hair had been styled accordingly into a braid that trickled over her other shoulder, and only then did Jaime notice the wolf on Arya’s romper was howling at the base of a tree whose roots were covered in snow.

When they stepped into the hall, it became apparent who the leaves were.

Brienne emerged, encased in a crimson… Pantsuit? Half-dress with pants? His mind couldn’t completely fathom what to call it, but it wiped his mind blank. Her legs were so impossibly long in the straight-lined pants, the train flaring out from her waist accentuating the dip that he’d felt beneath his arms and hands when he held her at night. The bodice swept up and over her small breasts to end above her collarbone in a boatneck neckline, and her strong arms were wrapped in ¾ mesh sleeves, the same leaves on Sansa’s dress adorning them. Her usually unruly, chest-length hair had been pulled up into a French twist, leaving her neck bare—

Except for his mother’s pendant, resting against the satin that covered her.

He opened his lips to say something, meeting her eyes with what was probably a stupefied expression, but she bashfully bit her red-stained lips, her arm going around Sansa’s shoulders and guiding her to the elevators.

“Are you going to escort me or not, loser?” Arya reprimanded.

Jaime shook his head to remind himself where he was, and Arya wove her arm through his and tugged him down the hall after them.

* * *

They were seated differently at the table than he’d imagined, so when no one was looking, he switched the name place markers so that neither of the girls would have to sit next to Tywin. Instead, they’d be seated between both Brienne and himself, and his father would be to the right of him. If Tywin noticed the change when he took his seat, he didn’t say anything.

After some brief introductions by the board, during which Tywin didn’t actually speak, the dinner commenced, with the first and second course taking place before the first few awards were given. Arya was halfway through the chicken cordon bleu when she froze, pinching Jaime’s thigh with her fingers before placing one over her lips, mouth full to bursting with food.

“… Beast of a woman. Never thought I’d see Tywin Lannister brought so low as to allow his son to associate with such an individual.”

The deep voice came from the table behind them.

“The Kingslayer?” another, more gravelly voice mocked. _“Please_. If Aerys’s murderer deserves anyone, it would be that lumbering creature. I’m just glad none of _my_ daughters chased after him. Can you imagine having him as a son-in-law?”

“Better than calling that hideous sow my daughter-in law,” the other man resounded, chuckling. “Luckily, Ramsay has better taste than that. Then again, none of your _own_ daughters are particularly beautiful, are they, Walder?”

By the time she swallowed what was in her mouth, Arya was close to boiling over, so Jaime leaned over, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t worry about them,” he said in a low tone only she could hear. “My mom used to say that half the world will love you for the same reason the other half won’t. _You_ love her for it, right?”

The teenager nodded, and Jaime gave her arm a pat and released her.

“Then forget what—”

“Do _you_ love her?” she blurted in a whisper.

His eyes went to Brienne, who was in the middle of a conversation with the woman behind her at a nearby table. She was a vision, dressed in Lannister red, and when she turned to say something to Sansa, she caught him staring, throwing him the smile he adored.

“Yes,” he breathed, playfully nudging the girl with his elbow. “But I haven’t told her yet, okay?”

To his amazement, Arya smirked.

“I won’t tell.”

“And now,” the old codger at the podium announced, “it’s time to present the American Surgical Association Newcomer Award for the last fiscal year. For those of you who don’t know, this award is given based on both professional and patient evaluations, with the final vote coming from the ASA board of directors. Dr. Lannister…?"

Everyone held their breath as Tywin stood and stalked between the tables to take his place onstage, every bit the lion he was known to be.

“A little over a year ago, someone with whom I had no intention of maintaining a long-term professional relationship walked into my office and accepted the difficult job I offered. At the time, it was only a matter of convenience…” His gaze wandered to their table, and a fondness Jaime hadn’t seen in years made a home on his father’s features. “It has since become a matter of necessity. While I find myself growing tired in my advancing age, this surgeon _never_ gives up. She accepts nothing less than excellence from herself and those around her, and I look forward to the harsh criticisms I will no doubt continue to receive from her for as long as she remains under my employment.” Tywin took the plaque from the podium, inspecting it. “It is my privilege to bestow the honor of this award on Major Brienne Tarth, my Chief of Surgery at Baelor Hospital.”

Every mouth at their table fell open, and applause broke across the sea of people, shattering every word those pompous men had said about her. Sansa did her best to shove a shocked Brienne out of her chair and toward the front of the room, where Tywin was raising an eyebrow at her, impatiently waiting for her to relieve his hands of the object. As she ascended the steps, her train flowing behind her, Jaime stood from his chair while his hands beat a proud jubilee, the girls close behind. By the time she was standing at the podium, holding the plaque in her hands with wonder, everyone was either on their feet or clapping for her. Tywin tilted his head in the microphone’s direction, and even from where he took his seat again, Jaime could feel her trepidation.

“I, um…” She nervously bit her lip. “I had no idea I’d even been nominated for this, so I don’t have anything prepared. I should probably just thank some people so we can all get to dessert...” Her audience laughed, and Jaime felt pressure in his chest at how deserving she was of their adoration. “This is great, and I’m very thankful, but no one sees the incredible people I work with day in and day out. Every person in the OR at Baelor deserves their share of this, especially my former resident, Dr. Podrick Payne. Uh…” Her eyes flitted from one side of the room to the other, her uncertainty palpable. “I originally took this job for my family, and without their support, being chief would be _impossible_ to manage, so—” She smiled at Sansa and Arya, who grinned — “thank you.”

The moment her smile moved to him, it faded.

“I…” She studied the plaque in her hand. “I’d also like to thank someone who was crucial to my work last year.” Swallowing hard, she looked back out at him, fighting her tears. “You went above and beyond to make work bearable for me from the very first day. You dove through metric _tons_ of paperwork so I wouldn’t have to, and taught me how to manage the ins and outs of being chief. When family had questions, you answered them. When we lost a patient…” The tears fell at last, and his heart caught in his throat at the memory. “…You were there. When we were attacked, you intervened, knowing it could have cost you your life.” Arya leaned into him then, and he wrapped an arm around her, her small hands grasping it. “Jaime, your support has meant the world to me, and I’d have never gotten this far without you by my side. Thank you.”

Silence resonated through the space… Until a single clap from onstage trickled over into the hands of everyone else. Arya clutched him even more tightly and smiled up at him from where she was leaning, and Sansa beamed in his direction, her applause drowned out by the rest of the crowd.

When Brienne returned to the table with her plaque, the girls swarmed her with hugs and giddy kisses to her cheeks. He didn’t say anything; he simply held out his pocket square so she could dab at her damp face, squeezing her fingers as she took it, hoping the gesture conveyed what his words couldn’t say just yet.

* * *

“Fucking ridiculous,” a brassy voice complained. “If the board could have seen the way she spread her legs after prom, grunting like a pig, she wouldn’t have won anything.”

Jaime had arrived at the open bar to order four Shirley Temples for them when he heard the red-haired man say those words.

“And how is it a ripe dick such as yourself was able to take her to prom in the first place?” he asked, turning to face the man.

“It was for a bet. We did our best all of senior year to date her, but she wouldn’t put out. I got her to go to prom with a bouquet of roses in my hand. After that, everything else was easy.”

_“…If you bring her flowers, make sure there aren’t any roses, okay? I’ll explain later.”_

Sansa’s words from the phone call about how Brienne had the flu came back to him at once; the girl never had told him why he couldn’t bring roses, so he’d gone and bought some pink camellias instead.

Now, he knew why.

“The freak made for an interesting lay, I’ll admit—”

His mind went white with rage, and before he knew what was happening, the knuckles of his right hand were on _fire,_ and the man was holding his jaw from where he laid on the floor. Jaime straightened his back and his tie, ignoring the flabbergasted faces surrounding him, looking on in horror.

“You are speaking of a retired veteran, sir. Call her by her title. Call her Major Tarth.”

The man staggered to his feet, his eyes narrowed in disbelief.

“You pretentious, stupid son of a bitch…!”

The obscene, greasy-haired prick lunged at him, and after some wrestling, standing, stumbling, and a spare punch or two, Jaime pinned him to the floor. He heard his name in the distance, and when he looked up, it was to see the girls staring at him in alarm—

But the look of embarrassment and distress on Brienne’s face struck him harder than any fist ever could.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The awards dinner (and Jaime seeing Brienne in her jumpsuit with a train) was the first scene I ever had come to mind. It happened back in March, and it's entirely due to Foster the People's 'Sit Next to Me'. I blame them for the whole fic. 
> 
> If a question was raised in this chapter, chances are there's already an answer waiting for you in the next one. ;)
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading, as always. Kudos, comments, and bookmarks fill me with joy and help me keep writing.


	18. Home at Last - Brienne X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne is asked (and answers) a question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay, everyone! Real life got in the way for a little while, but it should be smooth sailing from now to the end. Bonus: I got into a highly-competitive nursing program, so this fic officially has to be done by January 1st. (*woot woot*)
> 
> Thanks to everyone that reached out over the update period for your concern. I'm fine, my friends are fine, all is well. Just had a particularly busy few weeks. 
> 
> I hope this chapter was worth the wait. The ending of it has been planned since probably the end of April, so... Yeah. 
> 
> As always, thank you for your kudos, your comments, and your kind words. They mean the world to me. Enjoy!

She had no idea that once she’d donned the frock Sansa had designed, the girls would hand over the necklace she’d hidden away in her dresser earlier that week.

“When did you manage to find that?” she inquired, her smile softening the eyebrow she quirked in suspicion.

Sansa bit her bottom lip, her eyes flashing to her sister, who simply bowed. Brienne chortled at the sneaky little heathen; hopefully the teenager wouldn’t enter rooms uninvited once Jaime had—

Her smile faded.

“Are you angry with me?” Arya asked, her features contorting into a worried frown.

“No, it’s just—”

“I _told_ you she wouldn’t like it if you went in her room,” Sansa fretted. “You never listen to—”

“That’s not it,” she assured them.

“Then why are you upset?”

The smallness in Sansa’s voice broke her, and Brienne knew she had to tell them, but how on earth could she broach the subject?

“I’m not upset with anyone,” she began. “It’s just…” A deep breath, and— “Jaime and I were talking, and we think things would be easier if he moved into the house with us.”

The girls exchanged confused looks, remaining silent.

“We were discussing college next year,” she continued, addressing Sansa. “If I had a baby, it would be easier to have someone else around the house to take care of things…” She tilted her head in Arya’s direction. “Someone to take you to swim meets when I couldn’t, things like that.”

The younger sister regarded her optimistically.

“Does this mean you’re finally together?” she demanded.

_Wait… What?_

Arya scoffed at the likely stupefied expression on her face, flopping back onto the mattress of the closest bed.

“What happens if you get into another fight?” Sansa tested. “Would he go to Tyrion’s, or…”

Shit, she hadn’t thought about that.

“We’ll handle it ourselves,” she reasoned. “He means too much to everyone to let the small things hurt us anymore.”

“And what does he mean to _you?”_ the young woman countered.

Brienne stood there for a moment, unsure how to answer. Then—

“More than I think I realize.”

The sound of the door across the hall clicking open effectively hushed the subject, but Sansa couldn’t stop smiling as she tugged her sister up from the bed, fixing the waves she’d painstakingly curled into her hair and spraying them with hairspray so they’d stay put. Arya protested the entire time, and Brienne was reminded of another young woman who complained about her straw-like hair, a cerulean knee-length dress that was too snug in the shoulders…

And a young man with red hair and a smile so bright she’d failed to see the malice lurking behind it.

* * *

The award had been unexpected, and she’d done her best not to add a layer of impropriety when she thanked Jaime in front of everyone. It was difficult with the way he was beaming at her, his arm around Arya as the girl leaned into him, completely trusting the man after she would have kicked him in the head during that dinner a year ago.

Brienne had never felt more beautiful, and not because she was wearing satin, or had her hair styled differently than she usually would; it was something about the slight smile that pulled at his lips, the pure elation on the girls’ faces, how Tywin was the first to clap after her recognition of Jaime’s effort in her success at the hospital that hit her square in the chest with three words she’d never thought to use for her best friend.

It steeped inside her with such intensity that she was sure her pantsuit would be stained for everyone to see by the time she returned to her seat; it seared itself into her chest, glued itself to the tip of her tongue, filled her stomach—she couldn’t take a single bite of dessert—and, perhaps most annoyingly of all, flooded her mind. He squeezed her fingers when she took his pocket square to dab beneath her eyes where she’d cried, and she found herself hoping the gesture meant more than it probably did.

It was later, when gasps of shock and the glittering sound of shattered glass rebounded through the room, leading her to find two men who knew her in both very intimate and opposite ways wrestling on the ground like teenage boys, that the feeling suddenly became a weapon, its blade piercing right through her.

“Jaime…!”

The rage she’d seen in him melted away, and he scrambled to his feet, aghast at what had occurred.

“An assault charge is exactly what you need with your record,” Ron spat as he stood, blood dribbling down his chin, glaring at Jaime. “They’ll have your license for _good_ this time, Lannister. When my lawyer’s through with you—”

“I imagine you’ll be several thousand dollars short of a full wallet and with no case to speak of.”

Tywin moved to stand beside her, his height imposing on everyone.

“And how do you figure that?” Ron accused.

Everyone was watching Tywin.

“There are at least half a dozen people here who heard you provoke my son to throw the first punch,” he said evenly. “After all, you were slandering his girlfriend.”

No.

Oh, no.

Her eyes flew to Jaime, but instead of the revulsion and bewilderment she’d expected to see, he was pink in the cheeks, shame overtaking his body the way a four-year-old might step back after he kissed a girl without her permission.

“With respect, Dr. Lannister, how does your son remain employed by your company if he’s sleeping with his supervisor?” asked the long-nosed man who’d been seated behind them.

Brienne’s own flesh ran hot at his words, and Tywin stole a glance at his son.

“They came to my office together a week ago to tell me about their relationship,” Tywin smoothed. “Jaime put in his resignation, and as of Friday afternoon next week, he will no longer be my employee. Does that satisfy everyone?” He fixed the long-nosed man with a hard stare. “Senator Bolton?”

After considering it, Bolton nodded. Tywin turned to Ron.

“I trust you won’t need security to see you out, Doctor…?”

“Connington,” Ron bumbled. “Mr. Ron Connington.”

“Ah, so your _wife_ must be the reason you’re here,” Tywin pressed. “And where is Dr. Connington?”

Ron cleared his throat, looking at his shoes; Brienne was reminded of the day he’d been forced to begrudgingly apologize in the parking lot at school.

“Dr. Stone went back to our room. She got a headache early on.”

“Unsurprising, given the circumstances.”

Brienne stood there, as stunned as Ron was by Tywin’s harsh words.

“Please, don’t misunderstand me,” Tywin continued. “I am merely pointing out the fact that a woman would hardly attend medical school and fulfill a five-year surgical residency program just to throw out her maiden name for her husband’s, _Mr._ Connington. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

He turned on his heel and walked away, and the crowd that had witnessed the debacle dissipated, leaving the five of them alone. Ron stepped forward—

“Brienne, I—”

“Get out.”

Everyone gaped at Sansa, astounded by the resolution in her voice, but Ron chuckled.

“You were fresh off your mother’s tits when it happened,” Ron jeered. “Don’t think for a _second_ that you understand it.”

Sansa’s nostrils flared, and her blue eyes froze over.

“On the contrary, I know _exactly_ what it feels like,” she bit out. “If you even _attempt_ to speak to her again, I’ll pull every string I own to make your life a living hell. Is that clear?”

For a fleeting moment, Brienne saw Cat standing where Sansa stood, her fiery words and smooth voice neatly clipping off every word Ron so desperately wanted to say.

“My sister asked you a question,” Arya calmly reiterated.

With a final huff, he bowed his head at them, grumbled his apologies, and exited the room. Brienne’s enjoyment of the event went with him.

“Should we leave?” Sansa ventured, taking her hand when she didn’t respond.

All Brienne could do was nod, squeezing her fingers as Sansa led them outside the ballroom and to the elevator. Arya and Jaime met them there a minute later, the plaque she’d been awarded resting securely in Arya’s small hands, a cloth napkin filled with ice in Jaime’s.

He wouldn’t look at her until the four of them were in the room Brienne and Jaime had been sharing, shoes kicked off, television on, first-aid kit nearby while she carefully examined his freshly washed (but still bleeding) hands on her lap. It took everything she had to forget how warm they were; how he’d gotten hurt defending _her_.

“I’ll go get some more ice,” Arya told them, grabbing the bucket and reaching for the door.

“You don’t have to,” Jaime explained. “It’s not all that bad.”

Brienne exerted some pressure on the purple, sprained area on his right ring finger, and he winced.

“It’s just _mostly_ bad,” she concluded, nodding at Arya.

The girl gave them a grin of her own, and she propped open the door and bounded down the hall in her bare feet, propriety forgotten.

“What’s she so happy about?” Jaime wondered.

A snort came from the chair where Sansa was seated.

“You beat another man to a pulp,” she said with a smile. “And not just anyone; you beat up _Ron Connington_. If anything, she’s feeling inspired.”

Brienne pursed her lips into a line, unable to meet the sea-foam eyes she knew were staring right at her. How much had Ron said before Jaime had hit him? How much did he know? Her blood rushed to her ears at the thought of what Ron might have told him, almost deafening her with its force. She no longer felt beautiful; she felt like the ugliest woman alive.

“Are you okay?” he murmured.

She didn’t realize her hands had stilled as her mind spiraled out of control, her ancient walls doing their best to reconstruct themselves against the memories invading her heart. His bloody fingers caressed her knuckles, painting them with crimson strokes as bold as her satin frock, and she hastened to her feet.

“I should change,” she lied, releasing his hands and forcing herself to smile at Sansa. “Don’t want to get blood all over your hard work, now, do I?”

Sansa studied her skeptically, so Brienne gingerly took her sweatpants and t-shirt and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind her and washing her hands immediately, scrubbing Jaime’s already drying blood from her fingers. She didn’t need any more reminders of the substance or what he’d done for her.

The conversation continued without her when Arya returned with the ice, the door closing behind her. After Brienne had finished changing, her pantsuit delicately folded atop the toilet lid, she sat on the edge of the bathtub, listening.

“…Really cool. I can’t _wait_ to tell Sandor,” Arya declared. “He’s going to be so jealous.”

“Why would—”

His words ended in an abrupt hiss that told her that the girls were dressing his knuckles.

“Sandor’s always wanted to get back at Connington for what he did to her,” Sansa clarified. “When he finds out that _you_ did it first, he’ll probably combust.”

A sigh.

“A lot of good it did me,” Jaime groused. “I lost my job, any hint of whatever might be left of my reputation and—” Another sharp inhalation of pain— “Even your mom’s—”

“Why did your dad say you’re a couple?” Arya pried. “We know you aren’t. You would have said something.”

“He was just trying to save my ass. Or maybe hers.” A chuckle. “He likes her more than he likes me these days.”

Uninvited, a smile crept onto Brienne’s lips at the idea, her fingertips shifting to graze the pendant around her neck.

“Either way, it was really romantic,” Sansa said in a low voice, likely hoping she wouldn’t hear. “Nobody’s ever fought like that for me.”

“They have,” Jaime assured her, then his tone changed. “Not everyone uses their fists in a fight, you know.”

Silence.

“I’m glad you’re moving in,” Arya mentioned. “Grandpa does a great job, but I know he misses having another hand to help out around the house.”

“You sure about that? This time last year, I’m fairly certain you would have given anything to punch _me_ in the face.”

The sound of Arya’s tinkling laugh, such a contrast to the gruff way she would usually speak, filled Brienne with a warmth that eclipsed her anxiety, and she stood, stretching her hand toward the door handle—

“If it makes Mom happy, then _we’re_ happy,” the younger Stark confirmed.

Of course, the only thing Brienne could hear was ‘mom’, the word clattering around her heart the way a steel ball might swish itself around a can of spray paint.

“Speaking of Mom…” Sansa thought aloud, and Brienne heard the vintage floorboards creak as the girl stepped closer to the bathroom door. “Brienne? Is everything—”

She flushed the toilet and turned on the faucet to convince them she hadn’t heard them, drying her hands and grabbing the pantsuit before opening the door.

“They did a good job,” Jaime said, holding up his hands and showing the way they’d bound his knuckles.

Brienne cocked an eyebrow at Arya, and the girl grinned, shifting to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Sandor showed me how a few years ago, back when he started teaching me how to fight.”

At that precise moment, Sansa yawned, doing her best to stifle the sound with her hand and failing to do so. Her sister scowled at her.

“It’s not _you_ ,” Sansa growled. “I’m exhausted. It’s been a long weekend.”

With a sigh, Arya hopped to her feet and snatched her heels from the floor, heading for the door.

“Are we doing anything special for breakfast tomorrow?” Jaime asked.

Sansa methodically picked up her shoes.

“Arya wants to swim in the pool, but I was hoping we could go to brunch with some of the students I met at SCAD…”

“I’ll get up early and go to the pool with Arya,” Brienne interjected. “Then we can all go to brunch. Tell your friends we’ll meet them at 11:00.”

The girls smiled, their arms going around her, when—

“Do we need to pretend you’re together tomorrow?” Arya questioned, throwing Jaime a glance over her shoulder.

“Probably,” he conceded. “Until we’re back in D.C., anyway.”

“But what about your job?” Sansa asked worriedly. “You know he won’t let you keep it. Not after tonight.”

His eyes moved to Brienne, flickering to the necklace she still wore as he stood.

“I’ll figure something out.”

Brienne watched as the teenagers went to him, throwing their arms around him, his own encompassing them both. The sparkling, bubbling warmth she’d felt earlier, before he’d punched Ron, sloshed over the sides of her heart, mingling with her blood at the way he closed his eyes, reveling in their affection.

After they’d said goodnight, Brienne busied herself with packing, laying out her outfit for the following day and grabbing her toiletries from the bathroom. By the time she was ready for bed, she noticed he was still dressed in his suit, struggling to take his tie off, the finer movement too painful for him in his condition.

As she had the previous day in the elevator, she shooed away his hands with her own, undoing the knot in the scarlet fabric. Rather than stop there, she tossed the tie onto the bed, her fingers automatically seeking to unbutton his dress shirt, revealing the white tee beneath. When she was through, she looked at him, a nameless emotion glazing his features with an expression that was a mixture of wonder and fear.

“What?” she demanded, standing her ground.

He blinked, taking a step back and swallowing hard.

“I don’t want it to be a lie,” he murmured.

She didn’t quite understand, and felt the skin above her nose crease in confusion.

“What…?”

“You and me.” A bandaged hand gestured between them. “Us.”

_Us._

It hit her like a bolt of lightning, scorching her from the inside out more brightly than the sun itself, and her mind could hardly construct a cohesive thought, to say nothing of her mouth’s ability to form words.

This man, her best friend and—well, whatever the hell he was to her—had beaten the _shit_ out of Ron Connington. For _her_. Two men had fought in public because of _her;_ it was absolutely ludicrous.

And yet here he was, gorgeous and flushed, shyly trying (and failing) to tell her he wanted to be more than friends. The world could never be so kind to her, and when she didn’t speak, he ran his hands over his bearded face and through his chin-length hair, combing it back.

“I’m absolute shit at this,” he groused. “Forget I said—”

“No.”

God, the look of absolute agony on his face—

“No! I don’t mean ‘no’. I just—” _Fuck…_ “Do you actually mean it?” she blurted.

He frowned.

“Why _wouldn’t_ I?” he asked, exasperated.

“I don’t know…!” she countered. “You could just feel bad for me, or—”

“Believe me, I’m feeling anything _but_ bad for you right now.”

Her gaze fell to the front of his pants, which were obviously tenting—

“Oh my _god,_ Jaime…” she groaned, immediately crossing her arms against her chest and turning her back to him.

It was one thing to feel something emotionally, but the sight of him, aroused because of _her…_ Her own blood rushed south at the concept.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he pushed. “Why wouldn’t I mean it?”

His words stirred the memories she’d fought so hard to forget in her silence, the leaves he’d blown away baring the only parts of her he didn’t know. Taking a deep breath, she faced him again.

“How much did Ron tell you?”

“Enough for me to want to wipe him from the face of the earth,” he admitted, “but I’d rather hear your version, if it’s all the same to you.”

She stared at him for what felt like hours, uncertain if she could tell him about it, and when he didn’t push her to say anything, starting a pot of decaf coffee as best he could at the table by the window, she sat on the edge of the bed and slowly unraveled herself.  

He listened intently while she told him about her senior year of high school; how the previous three years had only been as painful as she’d allowed them to be; how she’d earned respect from almost everyone since she’d made the men’s varsity wrestling team her sophomore year. Her teachers had adored her, though she was quiet, and while she wasn’t the valedictorian when they eventually graduated, she had fantastic grades, and scored some hefty scholarships to go to GWU based on her athletic performance.

“Ron didn’t get in, and his parents were pissed,” she explained as Jaime handed her one of the two cups of coffee, sitting on the bed beside her. “Every Connington had gone to GWU for the last three generations.”

“Be careful,” Jaime said with a smirk. “I might sympathize with his inability to please his family more than you’d like me to.”

She smiled, carrying on about how, for some reason, the most popular boys in school had started asking her out. At first, she’d said yes to a few of them, but they all wanted to sleep with her after only a month or so. In the end, she’d say no and stop seeing them.

“Then, after the whole school had heard that Ron didn’t get in, he told me how proud he was that I _had_ gotten in.” Her face had never turned as red than it had in that moment, so many years ago. “Said it was a testament to my wrestling skill. Of course, when he said it with a huge smile, and asked if I could tutor him in AP bio after school, I said yes.”

She took a sip of her coffee, doing her best not to reprimand the naïve girl she’d been.

“He went out of his way to make me smile, and for Valentine’s Day, he stuffed my locker full of so many different kinds of valentines and fake flower petals I had to ask the janitor for a broom to clean them up off the floor. I was late to third period, so the next day, Ron brought me a bouquet of roses and asked me to go to prom to make up for it.”

“And you said yes.”

Her bottom lip protested under the force of her teeth as she thought about how to continue, and Jaime took her forgotten cup of coffee from her hands, placing both mugs on the floor before resting a hand against her back. She knew it was meant to comfort her, but all she wanted to do was run.

“It was the best night of my life. We danced for hours, and when I could hear the other boys snickering at us, he held me closer, telling me to ignore them. Right before we left, he kissed me, and when we got in the car…”

She trailed off, her eyes filling with tears she hadn’t cried in nearly two decades.

“I’m sorry,” Jaime breathed.

“It wasn’t terrible,” she assured him, “and I wanted to, at least. But he didn’t answer any of my calls the next day, and Monday morning…” The weight of it all was too much to recall, and she laid down on the bed, curling her knees into her chest and reminding herself to breathe. The tears stayed, though. “People had written ‘Brienne the Beauty’ all over my locker, there were posters of me sitting on his lap with a strap-on doodled over my dress taped down the walls of every hallway… Ron walked up and thanked me for his new portable CD player, and that’s when I found out they’d been betting each other all year about who could take my virginity first. The whole school knew, and all the boys got was a week’s worth of detention. Dad called Ron’s parents, and they made him apologize to me after school one day, but it didn’t fix anything.” A few tears fell, moving down her face and toward the bed, and Jaime laid down beside her. “I enlisted in the army a week later.”

Silence, then—

“What did your dad say when he found out?”

She shrugged.

“He didn’t say anything. He just held me while I cried.”

Shockingly enough, it was the one silver lining, and the thought made her smile despite her tears. Jaime smiled back, reaching out and smoothing them away.

“As if I needed another reason to respect him,” he mused.

They laid there like that for so long that she could have sworn she’d passed a lifetime by his side. Somehow, the idea wasn’t unappealing.

“You’re sure?” she whispered. “About… Us?”

His green seas churned with anticipation at her words, a smile cresting over his face as he cautiously took her hands.

“Is that a yes?”

Was it? Was she saying yes?

“No,” she confessed. “But it’s definitely a maybe.”

His smile took root, forming a grin that devoured his face with its giddiness.

“I can work with that.”

* * *

When she woke up the following morning at 9:15, it was to find herself alone with a rumbling stomach, the side of the bed where Jaime had slept empty and cold. Her heart rate skyrocketed at the thought that, because she hadn’t said yes right off the bat, he’d—

Then she saw the note on his pillow; she took it, scanning it to find that not only had he taken the initiative to go down to the pool with Arya so she could rest, but he’d ordered a room service breakfast for her to enjoy when she woke up. As if on cue, there was a knock on the door the moment she finished reading where he’d signed it as ‘Yours, Jaime’.

_Yours._

She stumbled out of bed, answering the door to find a young man in a suit with a cart of breakfast trays. His blue eyes twinkled from behind his dark hair, and Brienne was immediately reminded of Renly.

“Good mornin’, major.”

Blushing at the single red camellia in a thin vase that had been put on her tray (none of the others had one that she could see), she took it from him.

“You’re so lucky,” pseudo-Renly told her with a dreamy sigh and a Southern drawl. “Handsome guy like that… He must’ve asked you an important question.”

“What do you mean?” she probed.

“The camellia means ‘my destiny is in your hands’,” he elaborated with a proud grin. “I work at a florist’s shop two or three times a week. So, did he propose?”

Certain that she was now as red as the camellia’s petals, she didn’t answer; she simply smiled and thanked him, closing the door with her foot and heading back to the bed where she placed the tray on the comforter, doing her best not to let her emotions get ahead of herself.

_My destiny is in your hands._

* * *

Once she was dressed and ready to go, she meandered her way down to the pool, taking in the hotel they’d been fortunate enough to stay in one last time. It had an inherent romantic quality, the way the furniture curved itself into valleys while the stark white upholstery begged to be touched…

She stepped outside to see Arya doing some laps, Jaime seated nearby at a table, his sunglasses perched on his nose. When he spotted her, he smiled, removing them.

“Hey.”

She smiled, pulling her cardigan closer to her body and sitting across from him.

“Thank you for the breakfast,” she expressed. “I was _starving_ when I woke up.”

He chuckled.

“You should have heard your stomach last night,” he managed to say. “I don’t know how you got any sleep.”

A playful frown was thrown his way when Arya appeared beside them, sopping wet from her hair to her toes.

“Is it time to leave?”

Jaime pulled his phone out of his pocket with some effort, his knuckles still uncomfortable.

“Yeah, we’d better head out.”

The teenager’s shoulders slouched slightly, but she nodded, grabbing her towel and her shoes as the three of them made their way inside.

“My father’s still pissed, by the way,” he said as they stepped into the lobby. “Ran into him on the way down. I’ll have to find a new job for the first time since I became a surgeon.” He reached over and took her hand in his own, the two of them lagging behind Arya so they could slip into the image of the couple Tywin had declared them to be. “Whatever you choose, I’ll have to leave.”

She intertwined their fingers, lifting his hand to examine his wrappings, the feeling of his skin against her own simultaneously foreign and familiar.

“I could call Mother’s Mercy and recommend you,” she suggested. “The position was meant to lighten the load for their entire surgical team, and a general surgeon would be more than welcome. It’s probably still open, and they were—”

His feet stopped, his hand tightening on hers so she was compelled to stop too, and he stepped closer to her, looking at her the same way he had the night before when she’d automatically started to undress him.

“You didn’t take it…?”

She bit her bottom lip and shook her head. He moved even closer.

“So, that day at SCAD…” he continued. “You turned them down? Even though we were barely talking to each other?”

Her shoes suddenly became _incredibly_ interesting.

“After everything you’ve done for Sansa, for all of us…” The fern in the corner was particularly green today— “I couldn’t do it, Jaime.”

“Why?” he rasped.

His free hand lifted her chin, and her gaze met his own. There was no pretense there, no malevolence; just the reverence of a man she adored with all her heart. His devotion sparked some sort of bravery within her, so—

“You know why.”

He moved his fingertips over her cheek and beyond, using the back of her neck to brace himself as he rose to his toes and gently covered her lips with his own. All rational thought dissolved, and her stomach swooped to her feet as she matched his mouth in an ancient dance she’d known with all the wrong people, the rightness of doing it with _this_ person overwhelming her with sensation; the softness of his small, perfectly sculpted mouth; the scrape of his moustache and beard against her chin burning the basest parts of her; the molten heat of his tongue dipping into her mouth as he fell back onto his heels… Her free hand snaked around to press between his shoulder blades at that, her own tongue tenderly meeting his.

After a few more moments, they parted, and he pressed his forehead to hers, drawing back when he caught sight of something over her shoulder. She turned around to see Arya standing several feet away, a hopeful smile on her face as she rolled her eyes, trudging toward the elevators. Jaime just squeezed her hand, and they took off side by side amidst only a few stares from the other guests.

* * *

The young man who’d brought her the breakfast tray was in the lobby as they checked out, and while Jaime worked through the payment with the concierge, she discreetly approached him with a few dollar bills.

“If I wanted a flower that said ‘yes’, what should I give him?”

He grinned.

“You could do a carnation,” he said, holding out his hand so she could give him the money, “but I’d do a daffodil. It says ‘new beginnings’, so in a way, it’s an indirect ‘yes’. They’re out of season this time of year, so you’re better off with an artificial one.”

Brienne folded the dollar bills and put them in his hand, murmuring her thanks. Now, where the hell could she—

“If you’re goin’ north, you can stop at a Sheetz,” he answered for her. “There’s tons of ’em as you cross the state line. They have the best variety of fake flowers, as far as convenience stores go.”

She nodded her thanks, jogging out the door to follow the girls as they went to load the car.

* * *

Brunch had been an easy affair to start, complicated only by the arrival of Tywin and Senator Bolton at a nearby table as the meal came to its conclusion. Sansa ignored them, chatting happily with the current fashion design students she’d met Friday, but their appearance made Brienne uneasy.

The feeling of something large and warm on the bare skin of her thigh below her shorts surprised her, yet soothed her almost instantly.

“We’ll be gone soon,” Jaime said in a tone only she could hear. “The checks should be here any second.”

She wrapped his hand in hers, trusting his judgment, and after about five minutes of his thumb stroking her palm, the server brought the checks and took their various forms of payment. She left with the black checkbooks—

“Dr. Lannister,” a voice purred from behind her. “Major Tarth, I’m afraid we weren’t properly introduced. Dr. Roose Bolton.”

Brienne tilted her head to see Senator Bolton standing directly between them, his eyes flitting from their hands to her face. She bowed her head in acknowledgment.

“Glad to make your acquaintance.”

“Congratulations again on your award,” he told her. “It’s been quite some time since one of Tywin’s employees has received such an honor. He speaks very highly of you.”

She smelled smoke.

“Thank you,” she responded, searching for something, _anything_ to make small talk while they waited for their server to return. “Tell me, what did you do before you were elected to the Senate? Where are you from?”

“Texas. Tiny little town, specialized practice,” he clipped. “You’ve likely never heard of it. I work primarily with prisoners. One of my former residents has been operating it in my absence.”

 _That_ wasn’t the answer she was expecting.

“Speaking of prisoners, how does your sister fare?” Bolton asked, raising his eyebrows at Jaime.

His grip on her fingers tightened.

“Wouldn’t know. I haven’t spoken to her since her trial.”

“Perhaps a forced detox did her some good,” the man determined. “It would certainly explain her silence.”

_“This won’t be the last you hear of me, Jaime. You or your pet.”_

Cersei’s words from the last time they’d seen her echoed through Brienne’s brain, a demon interlacing its darkness into her thoughts. Bolton didn’t hear it; how could he, when he hadn’t been there?

“Such a shame,” the man charged on. “She was a world better before she married Robert. The man was a fool to treat her so poorly.”

Images of a much-younger Jaime, limbs intertwined and moving against a sweeter, more innocent version of his twin sister made Brienne sick to her stomach. As if he could hear her thoughts, Jaime removed his hand from her own to place it on her back, his thumb calming her anxious mind through the linen of her shirt with its hypnotizing circles.

“Sorry to disappoint you, Senator, but the best parts of Cersei died with our mother.”

Their server chose that moment to return to the table with their receipts, and Jaime took out his wallet and replaced his card, handing the girl an exorbitant cash tip before rising to his feet. Brienne rose with him, the movement of their chairs forcing Bolton to step back so they could leave the table.

“Safe travels, Senator,” Jaime said with a charming smile she could see right through.

“You as well.”

They made for the door, Jaime’s hand instinctively reaching for hers, his hold sure and steady as Sansa hugged her new friends goodbye.

“You’re doing a great job,” Arya’s voice said from her other side. “I’d believe you were together, if I didn’t know better.”

Brienne smiled to herself, wondering how the girls would respond when they found out it wasn’t a lie.

 _“If it makes Mom happy, then_ we’re _happy.”_

Jaime brushed her knuckles with his lips after he opened the driver’s door of her Volvo, saying that he’d take over after they stopped for dinner in North Carolina halfway home. She opened her mouth to object—

“Sansa was right,” he insisted. “It’s been a long weekend. Besides, you need the rest more than I do. You have work this week.”

She wasn’t able to stop at the state line without seeming conspicuous, so she waited until they’d stopped at a Cracker Barrel in a small town between Fayetteville and Rocky Mount, right off of I-95. As they wandered through the country store afterward, walking off their food, Brienne took the opportunity to ask the cashier if they had any daffodil-inspired merchandise for men, and the older woman’s face lit up.

“I’ve got just the thing.”

* * *

When he opened the driver’s door to take her place after lunch, there it was, neatly situated in a small gift bag. He cocked an eyebrow at her across the console, taking the paper in his hands and clumsily rummaging through it to find the piece of cloth. As soon as he reached the pocket square, unfolding it to see a single daffodil on one corner, his smile dissolved, his eyes unmoving.

“Jaime…?”

He just stood there, stunned, his thumbs tracing the outline of the embroidered petals. Did he not understand what it meant? Was it too subtle?

After another moment of silence, during which the girls hopped into the car, Jaime folded it, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand and stuffing the delicate fabric into the back pocket of his jeans with a sniff.

Shit, she’d made him cry. How had she made him cry? It wasn’t—

Her phone began to ring, and her fingers immediately dove into her purse, sliding her finger along the screen when she saw it was her father.

“Hey, Dad…”

Rather than allow her mind to deepen its descent into whatever hell Jaime’s silence had banished her to, she stepped away from the SUV to talk to her dad about where they were and when they’d be getting home.

“10 o’clock is kind of late, isn’t it, starlight? The kids have school tomorrow.”

Her fingers went to her forehead, rubbing the skin above where her head began to ache with the change of circumstances she’d experienced in the last 24 hours.

“Yeah, I know. We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

By the time she got in the passenger seat, Jaime had already started the engine, his sunglasses perched on his nose as he pulled out of the parking lot and back toward the interstate.

The following two hours were spent listening to the girls singing along with every song they played, and once the sun went down, they gradually fell silent. Jaime nudged her with his elbow, tilting his head in their direction with a smile.

Arya’s feet were propped up on the console, her head resting against the window, one arm around her sister, who was nestled on Arya’s shoulder, her legs stretched out in the seat. They were fast asleep, their faces so peaceful…

How she loved them.

The music faded to a lower volume, and Brienne turned back around in time to see his hand moving back from the dial; the gesture was more than enough to prove to her that he loved the kids as much as she did.

So, why hadn’t he responded to the pocket square?

Maybe he’d changed his mind. The prospect of losing his job, bloodying his hands for a woman who couldn’t say yes to him, embarrassing himself in front of a hundred or so of their colleagues… Why _wouldn’t_ he go back on his offer?

It started to rain, the persistent pat of drops plucking each thought from her brain one-by-one and tossing them to the glossy pavement behind them, leaving no room for anything but fatigue and the need for sleep. A dream had barely reached out and whispered sweet nothings in her ear when she felt something take hold of her, stirring her from slumber.

As she grew conscious of her surroundings, her eyes dry and bleary, she saw it was Jaime’s bandaged hand, weaving his fingers through her own. He pulled their joined hands to his lips, pressing a solid kiss to the back of hers, letting his mouth linger on her for longer than was appropriate with two teenagers in the car. His gaze never left the road, but she didn’t need anything more to know he understood she’d said yes.

Cradling her hand to his mouth like glass to be breathed and written upon, he smiled, and it seared her sensitive flesh with its purity.

“We’re about two minutes out,” he murmured. “Want to wake the girls?”

Glancing outside, she saw they’d stopped in the turn lane at the intersection of their road and one of the major streets leading into the heart of the capital.

They were almost home.

_Home._

She squeezed his hand delicately, careful not to hurt his healing knuckles, turning around and reaching out to place the same hand on Arya’s knee—

“Shit—” Jaime began, her head whipping back to see what he saw.

The eighteen-wheeler hit them with a force she knew too well, pressure tearing through her left side and into her ribcage as the collision sent them across the road, flipping them over twice, the girls screams and cries piercing her suddenly excruciating skull—

_The girls—_

Once the vehicle had stopped skidding, their bodies suspended upside down in the cramped space, she heard the click of seatbelts behind her, sobs and heavy breaths overwhelming her heart, and there was nothing she could do, why couldn’t she _do_ something—

“Brienne…”

 _Jaime_.

The click of another seatbelt beside her and his hands, his wounded hands, tugging on her, begging her to move, she had to _move—_

She tried, but her body was wedged between what remained of the dash and her seat, and the eighteen-wheeler was creaking perilously close to them, a tree in damp roots near a house that couldn’t withstand it were it to fall—

Fuck, her fucking _head._

“Are you okay?” she heard him ask the girls.

Whimpered yes’s, then—

“Get to the sidewalk and call 9-1-1. Tell someone to come over here and—”

“I can help,” Arya began. “I’m—”

“NOW!” he bellowed, and Brienne heard shoes hitting pavement.

A groan came from the eighteen-wheeler, and it was killing her to breathe, _goddammit—_

“What can I do?”

Someone new, a man with an accent, was outside the window on his hands and knees, peeking inside at them. Jaime was on his knees now too, having been able to right himself inside the crumpled SUV.

“I can’t get her out, and that other car can only hold the truck for so long…”

“I’ll take torso, you take legs.”

She cried out when the stranger lifted her arms over her head and hooked his own beneath, the ribs she knew she’d broken piercing places they weren’t meant to as he pulled her toward him, bracing her for the first attempt. Jaime’s hands went to her legs, preparing to—

The first attempt left her moaning in pain, but she had dislodged a bit.

“And again, more toward me than down…” the man directed.

Shit, they’d almost done it. Her vision was beginning to blur, and the knife in her side twisted, the sound of a lengthy, unbalanced squeal coming from the direction of the truck, shouts from the street to get out of the way—

A third attempt and she was out of the vehicle, the stranger’s arms gathering her up like she weighed nothing and moving her away from the wreckage, the deafening sound of metal and metal colliding, glass crunching—

The last thing she heard before she slipped into the alluring darkness was Sansa screaming Jaime’s name and the seemingly helpless whine of the ambulances and firetrucks as they rounded the corner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all: No. I won't leave you hanging so long for the next one, because that would just be ridiculous.  
> Secondly: The next chapter is a surprise perspective I have been *dying* (and planning) to write since April. Get hype.  
> Thirdly: This chapter, and its events, were inspired by both the Jonas Brothers' 'Cool' and 'Angela' by The Lumineers. The latter played a heavy hand in Brienne's backstory and the idea of a collision. 
> 
> I should also mention that last chapter, Brienne's award/acceptance speech was inspired by 'Point Zero' by Yann Tiersen.
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are appreciated. Thanks for hanging in there, y'all! You won't regret it!


	19. There's Still Room Left on Mine - Tywin I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tywin sinks beneath his memories to rise and see what he's always wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm *so* thrilled to share this chapter with you all, since I've had it planned for quite some time. Thank you for your response to the last chapter, and I hope you enjoy the fluff, the angst, and the fresh perspective of our favorite pairing.
> 
> Genna is played by Kathy Bates in this story, and as always, Selwyn is Stellan Skarsgård.
> 
> When you get to the *, feel free to start playing 'The White Book' by Ramin Djawadi from S8, since the scene that follows was completely conceptualized while listening to that heartwrenching melody in my car. The music even lines up with what I've written. ;) It might give you some catharsis, if you're still hurting over S8. I know it helps me.

As the jet touched down in D.C., the tires of the aircraft skidded on the rainy runway, the jolt sloshing his piping hot coffee onto the pants of his brand new $8,000 Neiman Marcus suit, scorching his knee and ruining the fabric. He set his jaw against the inconvenience, reminding himself that soon enough, he’d be back in his office, in his chair, sitting across from hers as the paperwork he’d surely missed consumed him.

Not that he hadn’t been thrilled to start planning Bolton’s presidential campaign, but he was eager to numb his mind after the endless details, the embarrassing circus Jaime had created at the awards dinner the icing atop the ugliest cake imaginable. At least his son had the soundness of mind to follow through on his salvaging lie; by the end of brunch that afternoon, Bolton had been thoroughly convinced that Jaime and Major Tarth were actually in a relationship. Tywin had discreetly watched them leave, and the small smile that touched Major Tarth’s lips as Jaime took her hand in his, lacing their fingers together, picked at his instincts, telling him there was more to all of it than anyone knew.

Of course, the moment Tywin stepped out of the elevator to see Major Tarth’s former resident waiting for him outside his office, dark circles under his eyes, those instincts sensed another inconvenience.

“What happened?”

* * *

The last thing he’d expected to see when he entered Jaime’s hospital room was a young she-wolf in a chair beside the bed, her arms cradling her head as she leaned on the mattress, fast asleep, one hand resting above where Jaime’s right had once been.

His wrapping was clean, and the swelling was minimal; Dr. Payne had done an outstanding job on such short notice. The handsome face his son could have used to get anything in this world was terribly bruised and puffy, one eye blackened from the accident. A faint purple line crossed from his left shoulder toward his right hip, curving down below the hospital gown he wore; no doubt his body’s way of saying ‘thank you’ to the seatbelt for keeping him secure. The persistent beep of telemetry monitors and the crunch of Velcro-on-Velcro as his blood pressure cuff inflated filled the room, disbanding any form of stillness, and for a second, Tywin wavered at the concept of his son shaking hands with death.

Of course, death had kept that hand for himself.

The nurse had said he’d be anesthetized for a couple more hours due to the pain he’d be in when he woke up, and Tywin had nodded stiffly. She’d rattled on about deep tissue bruising, how it was a miracle he was even alive…

All he could see now was Joanna, huddled in a chair across from Arya Stark, one hand holding Jaime’s left while the other stroked his forehead, brushing his hair out of his face and humming a soft tune. He swallowed hard at the image, unprepared for how harshly it burned him.

“He’ll never work again.”

Tywin sighed, his hands shifting into his pockets while he kept his gaze on Jaime.

“Who called you?” he questioned, too tired to argue with his youngest son.

“Aunt Genna,” Tyrion admitted, “though I was hoping in a situation like this, our personal prejudices could be set aside long enough for _you_ to call me.”

He wasn’t wrong; as soon as Dr. Payne had explained what happened, calling Tyrion had been his first instinct, whether he’d followed through on it or not.

“She told me you’d assigned her to work on Major Tarth’s case,” Tyrion continued. “It can’t be so terrible that she’ll need a neurosurgeon… Can it?”

Tywin shrugged.

“I’m not willing to take the risk that she doesn’t.”

Out of his peripheral vision, he saw Tyrion nod, his youngest child remaining silent as he stepped forward to tearfully take his brother’s hand where Tywin had seen Joanna only moments ago.

The chemicals pulsing through his bloodstream became too much, and without another word, he left the room.

* * *

“It’s not as bad as we thought,” Genna mused, studying the CT scan. “There’s no bleeding, but there’s the slightest bit of inflammation in her left frontal lobe. See it?”

Tywin narrowed his eyes, considering the light area she’d pointed out.

“Are you _sure_ that’s not fluid?”

Genna scoffed.

“Why did you assign her to me if you don’t trust my judgment?” she accused with a frown. “Do you want to hear what I have to say or not? Because it’s one in the morning, and I don’t have to—”

“Fine,” he conceded. “What should we do?”

She studied the scan.

“Since a drain won’t be needed, the best thing would be to keep her sedated. If she’s unconscious, it will help reduce the blood flow and decrease the inflammation.”

“How long...?”

“I’d like to keep her under for five days. Maybe a week,” his sister deliberated. “I’m more worried about something else, though. You see where that pocket rests?” She tapped her index finger against the light spot she’d indicated. “That’s Broca’s area.”

 _Shit_.

“Will the damage be permanent?”

Genna sighed, her hands going to her well-fed, maternal waist.

“We won’t know until she wakes up, but if she has trouble speaking after a week of consciousness…”

The scan blinded him with a truth he didn’t want to face, and he turned away, supporting himself on the desk in her cramped office.

“Ty…?”

His little sister leaned her backside on the edge of the desk, her arms crossed.

“Why does she matter so much to you?” she asked, nudging his arm. “It’s not like you to care so much about someone outside the family.”

Tywin pressed his eyes shut, the deep blue in his mind shifting to a comforting hazel, the same as Tyrion’s—

“She reminds me of her,” he murmured. “Of what I wanted to be… Once.”

The warmth of his sister’s hand on his own compelled him to look at her. He couldn’t.

“He loves her,” he went on. “God help him, but he loves that woman, whether he knows it or not.”

Genna chortled, and he frowned, finally staring at her.

“Is that so amusing to you?” he muttered.

She patted his hand, striding over to remove the scan from the backlight panel.

“I said it once, I’ll say it again: Tyrion is your son in every way,” Genna defended. “He’s smart, understands how to use what he has to his advantage, and his ability to read people is only matched by yours. But Jaime has your _heart,_ Ty. There’s nothing you wouldn’t have done for the people you loved before Jo died, and I doubt there’s anything he wouldn’t do for that woman and her family. You resemble each other more and more every day, whether you like it or not, and I’m sorry for saying he’s not your son, when it’s so obvious that the opposite is true.”

He hated when she was right, while he simultaneously loved her for her blatancy. The moment her hand went to his shoulder, he swallowed hard, standing to his full height and straightening his tie.

“Right, then,” he declared. “We have work to do.”

His sister grinned, squeezing his shoulder and heading for the door, slipping the scan into the yellow envelope she was holding.

* * *

As soon as Genna was through explaining everything to the eldest Stark daughter, her little brother, and Major Tarth’s father in the private waiting room, the boy and the man were wearing worried expressions.

Sansa Stark was not.

“It was Cersei,” she breathed. “I know it was.”

Tywin scowled at the teenager.

“And what makes you—”

“I heard what Senator Bolton said to them at brunch,” she hurtled on. “He left one of his former residents in charge of his practice for prisoners in Texas. They probably take care of Carswell patients, and Cersei’s one of them.”

He lifted a skeptical eyebrow at the girl, who jutted her chin forward.

“It was all over the tabloids when she was sentenced. Everyone knows where she is, and there’s no other explanation,” she said confidently. “I trust Senator Bolton even less than I trust you, but if you’re grooming him for the next presidential campaign, he’d never do something so reckless. It had to be his resident.”

How on _earth_ had this child realized he’d been working with Bolton on a—

“My father’s best friend ran for president twice with your help. I remember what it involves.”

“You should interview the truck driver,” Bran mentioned. “They said he was sent here on the news. You might need a lawyer to do it, though. HIPAA complications can be messy.”

Astonished by the mature tone the boy had used and his comprehension of medical law, he nodded, making a mental note to call Kevan as soon as he was back in his office when his eyes met those of Major Tarth’s father.

They were stone-cold grey.

“We need to talk,” he commanded in a low voice. “Alone.”

An unfamiliar emotion chilled his veins at the implication of the other man’s words; was it dread?

Genna extended an arm to let the children know they could follow her back to Major Tarth’s room, giving him a knowing look, and once Sansa had wheeled her brother into the hallway, Mr. Tarth stepped forward and closed the door behind them. Tywin had no idea how to gain the upper hand in a conversation he couldn’t predict, but desperately needed to go well; not only for his sake, but the sake of everyone involved.

He opened his mouth, the perfectly-poised string of words prepared to—

“Why is it that ever since my daughter became involved with _your_ family, nothing has gone smoothly for her own?” the other man alleged. “She started working here, and her life has aged her at least a decade. There have been not one, but _two_ attempts on her life, both of which were thankfully thwarted by your son, who will never work as a surgeon again after tonight…” His hands tightened into fists at his sides. _“His_ injuries infuriate me as much as seeing Brienne in a hospital bed… All because you’re incapable of controlling your sociopath of a daughter...!”

The realization that this man cared so much about his son when he wasn’t his to protect or care for hit Tywin harder than he could have imagined. Perhaps even harder to admit out loud was that he felt the same way about Major Tarth. Her father narrowed his eyes, pinpointing exactly where he could—

“If I had a reasonable amount of my own money and the brains to do it, I’d go to the presses with stories no decent man would wish to silence _tonight,”_ he ground out.

“And I’d do absolutely nothing to stop you.”

The man looked as though Tywin had punched him instead of agreed with him.

“You’re not wrong,” Tywin extrapolated, his exhaustion dissolving any hope of pretense. “I’ve continually underestimated my daughter and her proclivity for base entertainment. It’s caused irreparable damage to my company and our families, and I’ll spend every night for the next year thinking about what else I might have missed, wondering where it all went wrong, wishing her mother was alive…” He pinched the bridge of his nose, drawing air into his lungs. “I’m the most powerful man in the United States, and somehow the weakest when it comes to protecting the people that should matter most. I apologize for the way that weakness has bled into your life, and the lives of your family.”

The man’s features relaxed at this, his fingers unclenching themselves as he sighed.

“Power, huh?”

He sat in one of the poorly-cushioned chairs, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees and his fingers threaded together.

“My father was the mayor of a town our family used to own called Tarth, about twenty minutes outside Savannah. We must have seen four hurricanes by the time I was fifteen, and every time, Savannah would sustain some damage, but Tarth would be devastated.” The man wearily rubbed his stubbled jawline. “When a group of people came over from the city and ransacked a few of the boats and shops after Hurricane David, the townspeople were outraged. They lost tens of thousands of dollars and took to the streets, demanding a plan to keep people out in the aftermath of another storm. Instead of trying to stop the people, my father allocated more money from the budget to further protect the shops, provide more wooden boarding and sand, had a marina built further inland so the fishing boats wouldn’t be right on the coast…” He chuckled. “After the next hurricane, the shops and boats were well-preserved, and the thieves had no way to break into anything.”

The man glanced up at him then.

“That was how I learned that the true mark of power was using it to protect people _before_ their circumstances drowned them,” he concluded. “I accept your apology, but it’s going to take more work on your part to prevent the circumstances of your daughter’s actions. If anything happens to either of them after this, I won’t hold back.”

Tywin smirked, his mind already whirring with ideas.

“I should hope not.”

His smirk was faintly reflected, and then the man stood, extending a hand.

“Selwyn,” he introduced at last. “Selwyn Tarth. And I suppose you’re Dr. Lannister?”

Tywin took his hand with a nod, and they shook amicably before exiting the room, the foul air between them having been dispelled.

* * *

She was hooked up to so many machines, the bed unsuitable for someone her height, and yet Tywin’s heart ached at how the setting made her seem so small. Genna had insisted she be moved here, however, to the neurosurgery ICU, so she could be closely monitored for anything the scan may not have caught. Telemetry wires were visible here and there, scrutinizing her heart rate and rhythm, and there was an O2 cannula resting in her nose; that would probably stay throughout the anesthetization, in case she were to have trouble breathing. Her gown and blankets did well to hide her reportedly fractured ribs and purple hip bone, and though there was an obvious lump on her head from the collision, her face was largely untouched.

One could be forgiven for thinking she was asleep, because in truth, she was.

The clock on the wall said it was 03:24 in the morning, and Sansa Stark was curled up on one end of the sofa by the window, staring at her adoptive mother rather than resting. Selwyn had taken Bran home for the night (well, _morning),_ Genna had left the nurse what she needed for a care plan before going back to her office for a few hours of sleep on her own couch, and no one had the heart to wake Arya, who was more than happy to stay with Jaime. Tywin knew so little about his youngest son, but he _did_ know that Tyrion would be right there, looking after both of them until Jaime woke up.

“You can sit down, you know,” Sansa suggested firmly.

He’d been standing at the foot of her bed for a solid five minutes, taking in every detail, committing them all to memory so he’d have something to drive him through his phone call with Kevan. At least twenty ideas, and no time to properly sort through them. Perhaps he should involve Tyrion for a second opinion…

The room had grown cold once there were fewer bodies present, and Tywin turned up the thermostat when he saw the girl shiver, drawing her denim-clad knees further into her chest. Recalling the way these rooms were set up, he opened the closet to find a spare blanket and pillow, handing them over to the teenager.

“No need to look so appalled,” he proclaimed when the girl didn’t move. “I may not be the best parent, but I _am_ a parent.”

Tentatively, she took the pillow and the blanket, scooting her body down the couch and making herself at home as he sat on the other end.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her gaze still focused on her mother.

But it wasn’t her _mother;_ he’d helped see to that. And now Cersei had done her best to take this mother from her too.

He shuddered at the thought, then felt the gentle _thump_ of something plopping onto his lap. In her begrudging kindness, the girl had unfolded the oversized blanket, tossing the bottom half of it onto his legs. No doubt she thought the shudder was as innocent as the cold she was experiencing, when in reality, it was a dense ice he hoped she’d never feel. He adjusted it to play off the true reason behind his behavior.

Sharing a blanket with a Stark. How bizarre.

“Thank you for calling Genna,” she mumbled. “Bran did some research. I didn’t know she’s one of the best neurosurgeons in the country.”

“Hmm.”

“I only knew she was kind to me when… Back during…”

“When you were dating my monstrosity of a grandson?” he tested.

The teenager closed her eyes to take a breath, pressing her lips together.

“Joffrey got what was coming to him. He would have easily been the worst leader the company’s ever seen,” Tywin confessed. “And Genna’s always been kind. Not that Lannisters aren’t kind; some of us are, as I’m sure you’ve noticed…” Every ounce of it in Tyrion and Jaime’s DNA was due to Joanna… “But Genna’s the only one who’s never been afraid to tell me the truth, especially when I need to hear it. When—”

He stopped short, unprepared to speak of it with this girl.

“When what?” she ventured, unknowing.

Suddenly, there was a dancer in silver blades, effortlessly curving her every movement into the ice that had formed around his soul, the patterns recognizable and arresting in their beauty, the moan of the surface as it gave beneath her weight and edges a familiar tune—

He couldn’t do this. Not tonight.

More abruptly than he’d meant to, he stood, replacing the blanket over Sansa’s feet.

“Sorry…” she exhaled, curling back into herself. “I always ask too many questions.”

Tywin placed his hands in his pockets, regarding her with what he hoped was a thoughtful smile.

“On the contrary, I think you ask the right amount of them,” he countered. “Without asking yourself questions, you wouldn’t have come to the conclusion you did today. Not only was it helpful, but it will go a long way in protecting you and your family.”

The teenager’s brow furrowed.

“And are we going to be protected now? For good?”

Tywin peeked at the battered woman in the hospital bed behind him, her lips parted slightly from her induced slumber. His late wife’s necklace was still draped on her collarbone, the emeralds glittering in the dim fluorescent light of the room.

_“Nothing’s more hateful than failing to protect the ones you love.”_

And he wouldn’t fail his family (or at least, those whom he _considered_ family) ever again.

“Yes,” he confirmed. “And if it cannot be done to the extent of the law, I will see to it myself.”

The girl nodded, a few tears escaping as she tugged the blanket more tightly over her shoulder, closing her eyes and ending the conversation. Noiselessly, Tywin left the room, but not before peeking at Major Tarth one last time.

* * *

Arya Stark hadn’t shifted by the time he returned to Jaime’s room around 4 AM, her arms still cradling her head, her hand above his stump. Tyrion was holding his brother’s only remaining hand, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Tywin moved inside, and the door shut a little more loudly than he’d intended, startling Tyrion and, unbelievably, rousing Jaime.

“Brin…?” he drowsily inquired.

The moment his eyes opened, he flinched, the dim light from the bathroom still too much for his head to handle. How he’d escaped without a concussion similar to Major Tarth’s was a question Tywin would never be able to answer.

Confusedly, Jaime pulled his head back so he could focus on his surroundings, and Tyrion completely encompassed the hand he was holding in both his own, grabbing his brother’s attention with a tearful smile.

“Hey,” Tyrion managed.

Jaime smiled back, catching a glimpse of Tywin, and as quickly as the smile appeared, it faded.

“Where’s Brienne?” he anxiously asked.

Tyrion opened his mouth, but the Stark girl began to stir, drawing Jaime’s attention to—

“No…” he hissed. “No…!”

Arya bolted up at the sound of his voice, both her hands moving to keep his stump-arm steady as he thrashed and continued to moan ‘no’ until it was a shout that transformed into sobs, the volume of it likely waking every other patient in the trauma center. Tyrion stroked his head and held his hand, but the pain of it was too much for him to bear, and he had to look away. Jaime threw his head back as he wailed, and the sound of it tore the Stark girl apart; she was crying too, shushing him as best she could. Eventually, when Jaime stopped struggling against them, his initial shock wearing down, the girl sat down on the edge of the bed and pressed the button to raise his head as far as he could take it, then curled into his side, wiping his tears away with her petite hands. Jaime stared at her, the tears still silently falling, his breath uneven.

“Is _she_ okay?” he begged. “Is she—”

“She’s better off than you,” the girl replied teasingly, her face wet with tears, and relief visibly washed over his son at this news.

The relief turned to bewilderment in an instant.

“It’s a school night. You should be at home,” he groused, glancing at the clock. “Jesus, it’s after 4 AM…”

The girl shrugged, pulling the sleeve of her hoodie over her hand and rubbing away her tears.

“Sansa and I worked it out,” she explained, resting her head on his shoulder and grasping his right forearm above the wrapping. “She stays with Mom, I stay with you. We’ll go home later tonight, and back to school on Tuesday.”

He released his brother’s hand to hold her close and press a kiss to the top of her head, and for a second, Tywin saw Myrcella reclining in the bed beside her uncle, a sweet smile on his granddaughter’s face. To think, or perhaps hope, that the astute young women he’d dealt with tonight might eventually—

“Where is she?” Jaime breathed into the girl’s hair. “Your mom?”

Arya looked at Tywin, who moved to stand at the foot of the bed.

“Genna had her moved to the neuro ICU,” he answered, trying to thread his words together. “She sustained a moderate concussion from the impact, and we’re keeping her sedated to reduce the inflammation.” The way Jaime was gaping at him… “She may have permanent damage to her Broca’s area. It’s too soon to tell, and we’re hoping the anesthetization will help reduce the severity of it, but other than that, a few broken ribs and a deeply-bruised pelvis were the worst of her injuries.”

Jaime hadn’t appeared so stricken since Tywin had been forced to tell the twins that their mother had died. Tywin bowed his head in Arya’s direction instead.

“Your sister believes it may have had something to do with Cersei, and after the explanation she gave for her conclusion, I’m inclined to believe her,” he went on. “I’ll be making calls first thing this morning to ensure the safety of everyone involved. In the meantime…” His eyes found Jaime’s once more. “…You should try to rest. Your body has a long recovery period ahead of it, though Dr. Payne believes you’ll be ready to leave in about six days, provided your arm heals according to—”

“How long will they keep her sedated?” Jaime demanded. “How often are they doing scans? They can’t—”

“Genna’s handling everything, and I have full confidence in her ability,” Tywin assured him. “I’m sure she’ll be by sometime later today to say hello and answer your questions.” He clasped his hands behind his back, turning to Tyrion. “The rest of us should be going to bed ourselves.”

Tyrion’s chin stiffened, and he nodded.

“Don’t go,” Jaime entreated his brother, seizing his hand. “Stay with—”

“He’s right,” Tyrion rationalized. “Shae’s been asleep in the OR’s on-call room since we got here. I’ve got to work in a few hours, and so does she. Besides…” He winked at Arya Stark. “I believe her company will be far more preferable to mine anyway.”

The girl gave a small smile, and Jaime rested his cheek against her head.

With a kiss on his brother’s hand, Tyrion benevolently left the room. Arya pulled the blanket over them both, grabbing the television remote and shifting around, getting comfortable.

“I won’t be able to sleep,” she told him. “You?”

Jaime shook his head, muttering something about how he didn’t know what would be on at this hour. Tywin pulled the bathroom door a little further, allowing less light to trickle into the room when the theme song for ‘M*A*S*H*’ crooned into the room.

“My mom loved this show…” Tywin heard Jaime say.

The teenager kept it on that channel seemingly for that very reason, and the soft tones of the theme drove Tywin from the room; he’d had enough memories for one night.

* * *

From 8 AM to 10 AM, Tywin was on the phone with Kevan, going over the legal loopholes they’d need to hop through when Sansa Stark burst into his office, her face pale and her hair matted from the long night they’d all experienced.

“Kevan, I’ll have to call you back.”

He put the phone on the hook, looking up at her.

“What is it now?”

Her bottom lip quivered, and her eyes glazed over with tears.

“Something’s wrong,” the girl elaborated. “She started bleeding…”

Tywin grabbed his suit coat, prepared to leave at once, when Sansa moved to close the door.

“What are you—”

“They called an OB, and once she examined her, she asked us to leave,” the teenager rambled on. “She’s doing a procedure. It’s called a D&S, or something.”

No. _No._

“Do you mean a D& _C?”_  Tywin clarified, his heart beginning to flush blood to his ears.

The girl nodded, and Tywin had to turn around and lean over, bracing himself on Jo’s chair.

Pregnant. She’d been _pregnant_ , and to know that she’d lost the possibility of a child because of _him_ and his goddamned inability to—

“What is it?” the teenager probed. “What are they doing to her?”

This was _not_ how he’d imagined his Monday morning. His fingers dug into the leather upholstery, the protesting squeak reminding him whose chair he was abusing.

“You’d be better off asking your grandfather.”

“But I’m asking _you,”_ Sansa insisted, and Tywin could hear the tears in her voice now. “What are they doing to my mom…?!”

He inhaled, releasing the sides of the chair and facing her.

“It’s a procedure called a dilatation and curettage, but it’s known throughout the medical community as a D&C,” he recited. “They’re dilating her cervix and removing the lining of her uterus.” The girl’s jaw slackened in worry. “It’s an extremely safe procedure, and she won’t feel—”

“Why do they do it?” she pried.

He moved around his desk to sit in his chair, unable to form the words while standing upright.

“It’s a necessary practice following first-trimester miscarriages and abortions,” he said, his eyes on his pen.

The girl sank into the crimson barrel chair, her tears silently tracking down her face as she tried to make herself as small as possible, her arms crossed against her chest.

“Nobody knew, did they?” he asked after a moment.

She shook her head, wiping her cheeks.

“I don’t even think Mom knew. When she finds out…” An unbalanced intake of breath. “It’ll crush her. She wanted it so badly…”

“Who says she has to know?” he proposed. “If it’s easier for her…”

The girl frowned, sitting ramrod straight.

“That may be how _your_ family handles things, but we don’t keep secrets in our house. She’d rather be aware of it.” She bowed her head with certainty. “I know she would.”

Sansa rose to her feet, heading for the door and opening it—

“The father,” he began, and she froze. “It wasn’t…”

She shook her head.

“No,” she replied, answering his unspoken question. “It wasn’t. It was a donor. Besides, they weren’t…”

The girl trailed off, and Tywin was curious to know—

“They weren’t what, Miss Stark?”

The teenager looked over her shoulder.

“They weren’t a couple until last night,” she disclosed. “They thought we were asleep, but we saw them holding hands in the car right before the accident.”

There wasn’t enough time to process what she’d said as another tear streaked her face, and she put on a smile a lesser man might not see through.

“Finish your phone call, Dr. Lannister. I’m sure we’ll all be thankful for it in the end.”

She walked out and closed the door, and Tywin was left with the distinct impression that he’d just been told to do his job by a child.

Rather than allow himself to be offended, he smirked after her.

* * *

By noon, Kevan had obtained a warrant for the local police to interrogate the driver, who openly admitted to attempted murder on behalf of his boss: Senator Bolton’s son out-of-wedlock, Ramsay Snow.

“Said the Lannister bitch had promised him money and a share of Lannister Enterprises if he killed the beast,” the man, a Mr. Locke, formally stated in front of them all. “Ramsay said I could have a share of it myself, once his father was president. Now, look at me.” The man gestured to his limp, useless legs; a direct result of the accident he’d caused. “No money in the world is going to fix my problems, now, is it?” he sneered.

Mr. Locke spoke of how he’d kept track of them through a community of truckers with whom he’d worked for years; how they’d let him know when the four of them stopped for dinner, when they were approaching the stoplight, when to pull away from the curb…

A malicious, terrible thought came to mind, and Tywin bowed his head, leaving the room. He didn’t need to hear anymore to know what to do next.

* * *

“Dr. Lannister…” Bolton purred into the earpiece. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Your son, actually.”

Bolton fell silent.

“I don’t know what you—”

“At approximately 09:51 PM last night, my son, his girlfriend, and her family were at the final intersection that led to their home when a tractor-trailer struck their vehicle, nearly killing them both. Jaime lost his hand in the aftermath, and the driver said he was conspiring with your son.”

Nothing.

“Your son’s practice takes care of Carswell patients, if I’m not mistaken…?”

The man on the other end of the line cleared his throat.

“Yes, it does, but—”

“Cersei is one of them, and I’m afraid that in his haste for a fortune and good standing in the medical community, your son was gravely misled.” Now, the part Tywin enjoyed the most about his job… “No need to worry about him; he’s been detained at the Mexican border, trying to flee from the police. But, needless to say, I believe we should drop our meeting on Friday, especially when criminal charges are at stake for both parties.”

Even from where he was sitting, he could see the man’s stupefied blink through the phone.

“Of course, Dr. Lannister.” Some papers rustled in the background, a drawer hurriedly slamming shut. “Let me take a look at my calendar and see—”

“I’m afraid you misunderstand me, Roose,” Tywin crooned. “I will not be rescheduling this meeting. If you think I’d financially back a candidate incapable of keeping an eye on his own son, you are sorely mistaken.”

“And yet, the root of the problem was your own daughter,” the man susurrated. “A bit hypocritical, wouldn’t you say?”

“Perhaps,” he concurred, a feral grin splitting his cheeks. “The people of this country are sheep, Senator, and as a lion, I could truly care less about them. But the lion can only remain in power so long as the sheep are guided by a leader with a mind… And this, sir, was a mindless mistake. Don’t you agree?” he finished coolly.

The grind of Bolton’s teeth was audible.

“Absolutely, sir,” Bolton bit out. “Thank you for your help, and I hope that your family recovers as quickly and healthily as possible.”

They hung up, the swirling change of circumstance causing Tywin’s gut to clench. He knew the man would eventually come after him, and that was fine.

As long as he didn’t go after _them,_ Tywin didn’t care.

* * *

“You’re sure it’s done?” Jaime asked suspiciously, glancing at Arya from where she sat beside him.

Tywin walked to the window, staring down at the cars as they drove by without a care in the world.

“Your sister will no longer be held at Carswell,” Tywin verified. “Once she’s proven guilty, she’ll go down in history like she always wanted, though I’m not sure it’s an esteemed record to be the first female prisoner held at ADX Florence.”

He turned to lean against the windowsill as he studied the girl; she had dark circles under her wide orbs, and it made Tywin want to be honest with them both.

“The trial date is set, and Ramsay has come forth with particularly damning evidence in regards to Cersei,” he said, addressing Arya. “There won’t be any need for your mother to attend. In fact, I’d recommend _everyone_ refrain from attending. It will no doubt be an ugly, unscrupulous affair, and the less press it receives, the better.”

“How is she doing?”

The concern in his son’s eyes for the woman he loved reminded Tywin all too much of another man he’d once known, and he couldn’t bear to tell him the bad news… Which was apparently written all over his face.

“What happened?” Jaime pleaded. “Is she—”

“She miscarried this morning,” the teenager explained delicately. “Sansa texted me. They’re still working to get her back to normal.”

The moment Tywin nodded in confirmation, his son threw his blankets aside with a wince, moving to sit on the edge of the bed.

“What are you doing?” the Stark girl growled. “You can’t go see her. They haven’t even let _Sansa_ back in the room.”

“I don’t want her to be alone. Not when—”

“She’d want you to stay _here,_ and we both know it,” the girl reminded him, climbing across the bed to block his path, her feet planted on the floor. “Besides, Sansa’s staying for the rest of the day. She won’t be alone for long.”

Tywin saw Jaime’s shoulders straighten like they always did when he fought the urge to cry, his only hand wiping away his tears.

“But she deserved it,” he asserted, as if he could speak an embryo back into existence. “More than anyone I know, she deserved to be a mom.”

Arya brought her hands up to rest on his shoulders.

“She _is,”_ the teenager maintained, a smile creeping onto her face, “and something tells me she’ll still get the chance.”

The possibility of a grandchild, after the loss of the other three, was all the solace Tywin himself needed, but the way Jaime hesitantly nodded gave him something far more dangerous: Hope.

* * *

The five days after the accident were riddled with phone calls, legal paperwork, sleepless nights, and daily visits to both Major Tarth and Jaime. While Major Tarth was visited in her sleep by her coworkers and friends, Jaime got to see his friends from AA, who brought gratuitous amounts of flowers to decorate his room. His closest friend, Edd, brought a gift bag filled with some lavender oil, sweets, fresh fruit, beef jerky, and ibuprofen he’d appropriately labeled the ‘Oh, Shit! Kit’ in bold black Sharpie, and Tywin had actually appreciated its genius.

“For when you need to step back and think,” Edd told him. “I’d rather see you get fat than relapse, all right?”

Though his son’s two-year sobriety birthday had shown Tywin how much Jaime had progressed beyond his past, that he had made such lifelong friends in his recovery made him feel almost proud to be his father.

All three Starks would drop in after school to see both their mother and Jaime, and one day Stannis brought his daughter by when Brandon was visiting Jaime and the girls were with their mother. The teenager brought a book to read to him, and her face lit up when the Stark boy suggested they take turns. They stayed through dinner, and when the pain became too much and the medicine not enough, Jaime visibly relaxed under the continuous lullaby of their voices. Tywin noticed the subtle way the teenagers would smile when they thought the other wasn’t looking, a complicated and yet offensively simple emotion shining in their eyes when they did so. That evening, Tywin excused himself earlier than he’d intended lest the memories eat their way into his bloodstream.

Tyrion came by every night when he got off work, and his girlfriend, Shae, would sometimes accompany him. Tywin had to admit, there was something about the woman’s grit that he admired, and he found himself respecting his son for having earned the love of such a woman.

On the fourth day, Tywin had raised his hand to knock on Jaime’s door and give him an update on Major Tarth—

“…Can’t _believe_ you didn’t tell me!” Jaime challenged.

“Well, you’ve always known how to ruin a party.”

The sound of his sons laughing together made him hesitate to enter the room.

“Speaking of parties, there aren’t going to be any. No bridal showers, no bachelor parties, or any of that. Shae wants it to be just us, the family, maybe some friends, and the mountains,” Tyrion elucidated.

Engaged. His youngest child was _engaged._ He should be thrilled.

Instead, he was despondent.

“She doesn’t speak to her family in Germany, so we were thinking that if we kept the guest list short enough, we could go to Smith Mountain Lake, stay in the cabin, rent a few more for the other guests…”

“It was Mom’s favorite place,” Jaime reminisced. “It’s where they went after he proposed, you know.”

“I know.” A pause. “I can’t imagine our father getting down on one knee for a woman, or _anyone,_ for that matter.”

The boys chuckled, and Tywin didn’t have the strength to simply waltz in and tell them that he hadn’t been the one to propose.

Or rather, the one to barge into his office out of the blue and throw a bouquet of white tulips on his desk, her hazel eyes ablaze and reddened with tears.

_“Are you going to marry me or not? Because if Randyll Tarly harasses me about it one more time, Tywin, I swear to god, I’m going to say ‘yes’ to shut him up!”_

Even now, 34 years later, Tywin could hear the fury in her voice, how she’d whimpered when he flew around his desk, assaulting her mouth the way he’d dreamed of doing since she had started working on the fifth floor two years previously, murmuring ‘yes’ in her ear as his hands wandered below the edge of her nurse’s uniform to brush against her nylon thigh-highs…

He spun around and left, the bottle of whiskey in his office beckoning him like an old friend through the sour fog that engulfed him.

* * *

The day of Jaime’s discharge, Dr. Payne came to examine his stitches once the nurse aide had helped him dress, examining the site to be sure it was healing as it should.

“After today, I don’t think cleaning and redressing it will be a problem,” the young man rattled off in his Scottish dialect. “No question she’ll want to be the one to look after it.” His warm brown gaze found Tywin’s. “Aren’t they waking her today?”

Tywin nodded, and Jaime bit his bottom lip.

“Don’t worry,” Dr. Payne said, pacifying him with a kind smile as he wound the wrapping around the blunt end of his arm, slipping the compression sleeve over it. “If anyone can bounce back from this, it’s her. She’s the strongest person I know.”

Jaime bowed his head in somber acknowledgment with a grunt, rising to his feet. Tywin saw Arya and Sansa appear in the doorway, beaming at his son.

“They’re releasing you?” Sansa questioned.

“He’s good to go,” Dr. Payne told them. “But he should refrain from strenuous activity for the next few weeks. There’s still some muscle sprain and bruising, and we don’t want to ask for further injury.”

Arya’s mouth broke into a relieved grin, and she darted forward, carefully enclosing Jaime’s waist in her arms. Sansa was right behind her, and Tywin was surprised to see how attached the mismatched family had become when Jaime draped his arms over them both.

“Tell her I’ll see her when I get off work…?”

Dr. Payne’s quiet inquiry received a nod from Jaime, and the young man smiled gratefully, leaving to care for his other patients on the unit.

The four of them made their way to Major Tarth’s room according to Jaime’s slower pace, where Selwyn and the Stark boy were already waiting. Jaime’s feet stopped him just outside the threshold, and after he drew a deep breath and released it, he stepped inside. Tywin followed, closing the door behind him.

Jaime froze at the sight of her lying there, unconscious and unaware as the nurse took down the bag of anesthetic solution and raised the head of the bed a few inches. Genna welcomed them both, clapping her hands on Jaime’s arms and drawing him in for a hug.

“What did it show?” Jaime immediately blurted. “The latest scan? You did one this morning, right?”

Genna pulled back, brushing Jaime’s hair out of his face and behind his ear. God, he really should have cut that mop before the conference; his beard could have used a good trim as well.

“The scan’s clear, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t damage,” she warned. “You’ll have to be patient with her. Give it a week, maybe two, and we’ll know what we’re dealing with in the long run.”

Tywin watched as his sister cupped Jaime’s face in her hands, then crossed to him, reaching up and thumping his back before she left the room. All eyes were on Jaime as he walked over to Major Tarth, though it was clear that she was all he could see.

His fingers slipped over and touched a fully-healed cut on her right hand, skirting up her arm to where the gown covered her, playing with the edge of it. As his knuckles gingerly reached out to caress her face, Tywin was doused in flame, and he had to leave the room to escape the scorch of it. He opened the door—

And nearly knocked over the physical therapist.

“Dr. Lannister!” the middle-aged woman exclaimed. “I didn’t know…” She cleared her throat. “I was told your son didn’t receive his final PT consult before he was discharged. Shall I do it now?”

Jaime glanced over at them, sighing as he moved away from the woman he loved and stepped into the hallway to go over the information he’d need at home.

*He’d only been out of the room for a minute or two when the heart monitor sped up a bit, Major Tarth’s head turning from side to side at a glacial pace as she woke from her six-day slumber.

Sansa and Arya lunged to be by her side, and when she saw them, she smiled.

“You okay?” she rasped.

They nodded, tears streaming down their faces, each girl taking a hand while Selwyn wheeled young Brandon to the foot of the bed, who leaned forward and reclined his chin on the footboard, a smile on his face.

“Starlight…”

Her father was crying, and her chin trembled at the sight of all of them surrounding her.

“Mom…?”

The woman looked at Sansa, who picked at the blanket with her free hand.

“How are you feeling?” the teenager inquired.

Major Tarth blinked, her face screwing up in pain when she took a deep, crackling breath.

“Like I got hit by a truck.”

A relieved laugh burst out of the younger sister, followed by everyone else’s peals. Relief stormed through the room like a cleansing mist, the fear of some irreversible aphasia dissipating somewhat with the joke she’d made. When she caught sight of Tywin in the room, she smirked, apparently glad to see him, but it was short-lived, her eyebrows knitting in concern.

“Where’s—”

The door opened, a few hushed ‘thank yous’ and ‘see you soons’ invading the space until Jaime closed it once again, his feet carrying him toward her before he’d even looked to see she was awake. They ceased moving when his eyes met hers, and Tywin could pinpoint the precise moment she noticed his stump.

She sobbed instantaneously, the force of it undoubtedly causing her anguish due to her fractured ribs, and in a flash, Jaime was by her side, his arms around her and his hand in her hair, shushing her as softly as he rocked her, promising her it wasn’t her fault, telling her that he’d choose her every time, that he didn’t regret any of it…

Once she’d quieted, the girls wrapped their arms around them both, her father sat on the edge of the bed, and Bran diligently made sure her feet were still covered after she’d repositioned them.

_“I see no ring on your finger. No wife by your side. No children to speak of...”_

The words he’d said to Jaime that day in his office resonated in the back of his mind, at odds with the family his son had made for himself.

The image made Tywin ache in ways he always had, and likely always would. Remembering that he should retrieve Genna to give her a full report of Major Tarth’s first few words, he saw an excuse to leave the room and took it.

God forbid the world discover that somewhere, beneath the layers of ageless snow, beat a heart the woman of his own dreams had once loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was inspired by 'Lok Gweltz' by Yann Tiersen (another instrumental; I'm a slut for piano music), as well as 'The White Book' by Ramin Djawadi. 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it. Kudos and comments are always appreciated, and thanks to those of you who remain on this journey with me. 
> 
> Fun facts:  
> \- Carswell is an actual prison/medical center where the most dangerous women in the United States are held.  
> \- There have, to this date and my knowledge, *never* been any female prisoners held at ADX Florence in Colorado. It's a 'supermax' prison, housing the worst male prisoners imaginable. They are held in solitary confinement for 23 hours a day, and under 24-hour supervision.  
> \- Aphasia is the inability to properly translate thoughts to speech. In this chapter, Genna was concerned that Brienne might have active aphasia due to the initial inflammation in her Broca's area. If you're unfamiliar with the terms, I suggest researching them, as it's quite common in stroke victims and victims of blunt trauma to the head.  
> \- Yes, the name of the chapter is from the first White Book scene with Jaime and Brienne. More on that later... ;)


	20. Better Than Before - Jaime IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime does better than his best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took a long time to put together, so I hope it meets expectations. A little fluffier than you'd expect, given their circumstances. Enjoy!
> 
> Quick casting note: A new character arrives on the scene, and he'll be cast as Russell Tovey in this fic. Thanks to the Discord fam for the recommendation, because he hits the spot pretty wonderfully.

He didn’t let her go for five solid minutes once she’d seen his stump, afraid that if he did, he’d still see the guilt written in the stunning blue eyes he’d longed to see for the last six days. As he rocked her back and forth, his fingers caressing her scalp and combing through her hair, he murmured in her ear, her tears soaking his shoulder.

“Shh… Shh… I’m going to be fine,” he asserted, his covered stump doing its best to soothe her bare shoulder blades through the split in her hospital gown. “None of this is your fault, I swear. I could never blame you for—” Her body shook with the force of a sob, and he could tell from the way she moaned that her ribs were killing her. His remaining hand held her head more tightly to his neck, despite the soreness that remained in his knuckles from his fight with Ron. “If it were my hand or you, I’d choose you every time. In every life, in every century… I would choose _you,_ do you hear me?”

She nodded, the fingers that had fisted in his shirt relaxing somewhat, a ragged exhale rushing past her lips as she slumped against him, her sobs subsiding. He thanked whatever god was listening for the effect his words were having, and pressed his lips to her temple, letting them hover by her ear.

“The last thing I did with it was hold yours,” he whispered so only she could hear. “It couldn’t have asked for a better exit.”

Her hair tickled him when she shook her head at his comment, smiling into the skin at his collarbone, her left hand rising to hold his neck for purchase. Needing no further encouragement, Arya and Sansa climbed onto the bed, wrapping their arms around them as a unit while Selwyn sat by Brienne’s feet near Bran.

After her breathing had evened out and the girls got off the bed, Jaime draped his arm around her and wedged his body between the siderail and her right side to recline beside her, his shortened arm resting across her waist as she brought her head to his neck. He kissed her hair, inhaling the scent of the hospital shampoo the nurse aide had used while she carried on light conversation with the girls, who recounted their fear of brain damage. Later that afternoon, he would have to remind himself to buy something for the nursing staff on the unit for taking such good care of his—

Shit, what _was_ she? His best friend, of that he was certain, yet all the other words he could think of paled in comparison to what she truly meant to him.

A word he’d never expected to long for leapt to the front of his mind, and he squelched it before it could fully form, looking up to see his father had fled the display of emotion… And to think, the incomparable woman in his arms had brought out a protective side of his father that he hadn’t seen in 34 years. The image of hazel eyes that had haunted him since that time electrified him with a chill, and he shivered, the pendant around Brienne’s neck catching his attention. It branded her in colors the men in his family had valued far more for their emotional worth than their financial worth for decades, whether they recognized it or not.

But all Jaime could see was blue. It was the only thing he treasured; to see her brighten in her love for the people in her life.

The girls rattled on, Arya nonchalantly mentioning how she’d placed in every event she had competed in at her swim meet on Thursday. Sansa tormented her sister a bit, telling Brienne how a young man, the senior from the varsity men’s wrestling team that had taken a shine to her, had brought her flowers and cheered her on without ‘her permission’. While Sansa beamed with pride, Arya rolled her eyes, embarrassed.

“Did you take them?” Brienne questioned. “The flowers?”

The teenager scoffed.

“Of course not,” she defended. “He’s _insufferable,_ and even prettier than Sansa. If I wanted to date a girl, I’d have done it already.”

“Ah, but you _do_ think he’s pretty.”

Jaime had heard the doubt in her voice, striking when he saw an opportune moment to do so. The glare he earned in return made him smirk.

“What’s his name?” he pried.

“Gendry,” the girl growled. “Gendry Waters.”

“He’s not rude to you, is he?” Brienne quizzed. “He’s not making fun of you, or trying to do anything… Inappropriate?”

Jaime’s heart broke for the woman in his arms, her experience with Ron Connington, the roses, and the bet in which she had unwittingly taken part still fresh in his mind. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Arya’s judgment; she was afraid someone might be trying to hurt her the way she’d been hurt. When Arya shook her head vehemently in response, he felt Brienne’s body relax even further into his own, a sigh of relief deflating her stomach beneath his arm.

“Gendry might be an idiot, but he wouldn’t hurt me. Not on purpose, anyway,” Arya added sheepishly.

And thus the subject was dropped. The children carried on, filling her in on the various happenings at school and home; Ghost had apparently torn into a throw pillow (or four) one day while everyone was gone, and at this news, Brienne merely shrugged, sleepily clutching at Jaime’s right arm with her left hand, her fingers skimming the sleeve over his stump. The affectionate touch clouded his mind, and the conversation morphed into white noise so effortlessly that he barely noticed when someone else entered the room.

“I was told I’d find you here,” said the man, whose red hair streaked with silver Jaime remembered from somewhere. “A man should check on those he helps, even after their hour of need.”

The girls moved to the side, joined by their grandfather, but Jaime stayed where he was, lying beside her. Brienne blinked.

“I’m sorry, do I know—”

“He got you out of the accident,” Arya stated, mesmerized by the man before she glanced at Jaime. **“** Both of you.”

The man stepped forward, extending a hand to Brienne.

“Captain H’ghar, US Navy.”

She hesitated, then gave him her free hand, and a wave of jealousy rushed through Jaime’s gut at the way the captain brushed her knuckles with a kiss.

“Navy…?” she wondered.

He gave her a tiny smile.

“Going on twenty years. My squadron will be relocating in the next week, and I thought I’d stop by before I left this afternoon.”

Brienne smiled back, and Jaime put one on too.

“Your daughters are incredibly brave,” the captain mused, studying Arya. “This one carries herself like a swimmer.”

Arya’s features lit up.

“She’s been on the women’s varsity swim team since her sophomore year,” Bran boasted. “Her coach thinks she could go to the Olympics in a few years.”

“Have you considered the Navy as an option following graduation?” H’ghar suggested. “If you’re a fighter, and quick with your mind, a girl could be of use.”

Brienne’s fingers tensed around his forearm above his stump, her grip almost painful, but she didn’t say a word. Arya, on the other hand, shook her head.

“I didn’t even know that was an option.”

The captain turned to Brienne.

“Army, correct?” he assumed.

She nodded, and H’ghar looked at the teenager.

“If it is something the girl is interested in, she should speak to you before she seeks out recruitment opportunities,” he continued. “My choice was made out of necessity, and she’d surely be interested to know the reason behind your own decision to enlist.”

“She already does,” Sansa proclaimed, staring at her mother. “We all do.”

Selwyn wrapped an arm around Sansa’s shoulders while Arya weighed the subject of the conversation.

“Very well,” the captain concluded. “I’m glad to know that you’re both healing, and wish you a speedy recovery.” He spoke directly to Arya. “You have time to decide, but a girl faces challenges in the military that a man does not, physical or otherwise. The ocean doesn’t care that you are smaller, or weaker, the way a commander might; it devours us all the same. Keep that in mind, because once someone enlists in the navy, they are no one in the eyes of the sea.”

Arya bowed her head, acknowledging the harsh truth of the captain’s words as he soundlessly left the room.

“Odd fella,” Selwyn thought aloud. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad he saved you both, and I’m not—”

“We didn’t thank him,” Brienne suddenly realized, her voice remorseful.

Jaime smoothed her hair back with his hand, her unbearably kind heart softening his own through her words.

“We didn’t have to. He could see we were grateful.”

Her skin flushed at his comment, and she bit her bottom lip to restrain what he knew would be a shy smile if it had been given the time to bloom. Speaking of blooms…

He kissed her head, squeezing her shoulder lightly before untangling himself from her and sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Where are you going…?” she breathed.

He reached out to brush his knuckles against her face, only to realize he’d extended his stump when it was a few inches from her cheek. The humiliation of his mistake eviscerated him, and he pulled his arm back, ashamed to have—

She grabbed his arm at once, holding the stump to her chest, tears in her cerulean eyes as her thumb stroked the skin above his sleeve. He didn’t have to hear the positive firmness in her words to know what she wanted to say, because she’d already said it.

 _“There will never be a time when you give me the best side of yourself, and I throw it away like it means nothing, because it means_ everything _to me.”_

Searing pressure built behind his eyes, and he wiped as a tear or two fell, rising to his feet and leaning over so she could keep his stump over her heart.

“I’m only going to the gift shop,” he said, his hand successfully going to her face and brushing away the few tears that had fallen. “It’s on this side of the hospital, so I won’t be long.”

She closed her eyes and nodded in concession, and with great reluctance, he straightened his back, and she let him go. During his trek to the door, he bent down by Bran’s ear—

“Look after her for me?” 

The boy grinned, wheeling himself over to her and hoisting himself up onto the bed so he was lying beside her. Sansa sat on the other side of the bed, taking her mother’s free hand and examining it while Arya sat by her feet, her mind in another world.

“I’ll join you,” Selwyn declared, crossing to open the door. “I could use some coffee myself.”

* * *

They didn’t talk much on the way there, and once Jaime had chosen and paid for the appropriate flowers at the florist’s desk, Selwyn was tucking one of the vases into his arm since Jaime couldn’t carry them both.

“Why two?” the man asked, sipping his coffee.

Jaime shrugged, heading for the lobby.

“One’s for the nursing staff.”

“That’s thoughtful of you,” Selwyn told him. “I got them doughnuts two days ago, but no flowers.”

“I’m sure the doughnuts were appreciated,” Jaime assured. “I only bought them flowers because it’s what my mom would have done.”

Selwyn smiled.

“She must have been a remarkable woman to have raised such a fine man.”

It was intended as a compliment, and yet Jaime couldn’t let himself believe it.

“She was. She’d order a bouquet for the patients on her unit who didn’t have any family, or had family that didn’t care enough to show up,” he elaborated. “My father found out, and mentioned that there was a book in his office on the language of flowers that she could borrow.” The memory of a fresh vase on his father’s desk every morning, and the way that man would smile when he saw them, even in the eleventh year of their marriage, brought a smile of his own to his cheeks. “She never gave it back to him.”

Without warning, the image of his father’s barren desk pricked his heart and numbed him to the bitter recollection, his need for the woman upstairs increasing with every step.

“So, do you still have it? The book?”

Jaime punched the button to the elevator harder than he’d intended.

“I, uh… No. I kept it after she died, and when I couldn’t…” He paused. “When it hurt, I’d look at the flowers and put bouquets of them together in my head. I’d make a list for my little brother when he got older, and hide it on the inside so I could tell him things, or make inappropriate jokes. Tyrion was so young... When I went to Georgetown, he was eight years old, and I gave it to him, thinking it might help him feel less lonely. Our father found him with it, took it away, and we haven’t seen it since.” The tension in his throat was intolerable. “The general consensus is that he burned it in the fireplace.”

The elevator reached them with a _ding_ , opening its doors and welcoming them inside.

“I know no loss is the same as anyone else’s, but losing my wife was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to go through,” Selwyn admitted, the doors sliding shut. “Losing Gal was devastating, yes, but I was still so numb from Rhia’s death that part of the sadness I felt for him bounced right off me. Grief changes us all in its own way, and not always for the better.”

His frank comment broke through Jaime’s thoughts with the blinding light of a thousand suns, the dull, emerald eyes of his father at their mother’s funeral clearer in his mind than they had ever been before.

A loud, resounding _bleep_ told them they’d reached the eighth floor, and they disembarked, stopping by the nurse’s station to leave the flowers he’d chosen for them: Blue hydrangeas, peach roses, and white campanulas. The nurses on the unit who saw him place the vase in front of the secretary ‘oohed’ and ‘ahhed’, telling him he didn’t have to go to such trouble; they were merely doing their job. The two nurse aides, traveling in opposite directions with fresh towels and blankets in their arms, bowed their heads in appreciation when they saw the blossoms, small smiles gracing their faces as they hurried down the hall to the room where they were needed.

“What do those mean?” Selwyn inquired when they started for Brienne’s room, handing over the second vase of flowers to Jaime.

“The hydrangeas say ‘thank you for understanding’, the roses are ‘sincere thanks’, and the bellflowers mean ‘gratitude’.”

Selwyn chortled.

“You’re _really_ grateful to them then, I take it?”

A laugh bubbled up in Jaime’s throat at the teasing tone in the man’s voice.

“More than they’ll ever realize,” he resolved.

They stood outside her door at last, and he reached out his elbow to push on the handle—

“What about her bouquet?”

Jaime froze, aware of what her father really meant as he turned around to see the man staring right through him. When he considered the simple vase of red, yellow, and white flowers he was holding in the crook of his arm, he knew he couldn’t lie.

“The alstroemeria symbolize endurance and devotion,” he began. “White irises are meant as a sign of hope and courage…”

He trailed off, unsure of who would tell her about the miscarriage and when. The fact that she wanted to be a mother so badly, and had lost—

“And what do the red tulips mean?” Selwyn pressed.

Jaime swallowed hard, fixing his gaze on her father.

“They’re given as a declaration of love.”

To Jaime’s surprise, Selwyn said absolutely nothing at first, then the corner of his mouth twitched, and his hands stuffed themselves into his pockets.

“That’s a big step,” he alleged.

Try as he might, Jaime couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so small. The warmth of Selwyn’s hands on his upper arms captured his attention, yet Jaime couldn’t look at him; not now that he’d confessed that he, a newly-crippled recovering drunk, loved this man’s generous, extraordinary daughter with all his heart.

“I don’t have to remind you how special she is, because you already know,” Selwyn pacified. “God knows I haven’t seen her this happy since Gal was alive, and I’d be an idiot to attribute it to the kids alone.”

One of Selwyn’s hands moved to cup his face, compelling him to meet the man’s sapphire eyes.

“You may not be the man I envisioned for her, but you love her for who she is. It’s all I could ask for.”

The genuine pride in Selwyn’s voice choked him with tears, and Jaime accepted the hug the older man brought him into as they fell, the vase of flowers securely held between the two of them.

* * *

She was asleep when they reentered the room, Bran napping alongside her. Arya and Sansa were seated on the couch, in the middle of a serious conversation about something, and their faces remained guarded when they looked up. Arya cocked an eyebrow when she saw the flowers, but Jaime ignored it, crossing to the nightstand and placing the vase where Brienne would see it when she woke up.

“It’s about time for a late lunch,” Selwyn said quietly, trying not to disturb his daughter as he went to Bran, gently waking the boy. “We’ll come back later. She needs to rest.”

He picked the teenager up like he weighed nothing, helping him into his wheelchair and rolling him toward the door. The girls stood, and Arya followed, holding the door open for her grandfather.

“Jaime…?”

Sansa's timidity unsettled him, and he turned to face her.

“Do you think… I mean, if we brought you food, would you stay with her?” the teenager asked. “I don’t want her to wake up alone.”

As if he’d been considering a different plan of action.

“Of course I’ll stay,” he managed through a frown. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Sansa gave him a knowing smile, throwing her arms around his waist and he winced, his bruises and sore muscles unable to withstand the pressure.

He held her anyway.

“Thank you,” she sighed.

The breath he buried in her red hair was the wisp of a promise, the feathers of an unnamed emotion tickling his soul, his tired arms never wanting to let her go.  

It was the same way he’d felt whenever he got to hold Myrcella as a little girl.

The realization that this young woman, who had found her own strength and wisdom, whose unfailing kindness in the face of the hatred she had faced, was the closest thing he’d ever had to a real daughter… It banished every fear from his heart, and every negative thought from his mind.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

* * *

Brienne napped for an hour or so, and he stayed with her during that time, sitting on the couch, going through the exercises in the packet the physical therapist had left at the desk for him. After he’d executed a full set of each one on the first page, he could feel the ache of his new nerve endings protesting his efforts, and he gritted his teeth, exhaling through his mouth at the pain of it.

“It _will_ eventually stop hurting, you know.”

He smirked, peeking over his reading glasses at her.

“And if it doesn’t?” he challenged.

She gave him his favorite small smile, her exhaustion dissolving instantly.

“Then we’ll figure it out.”

He removed his glasses, putting the paperwork aside and rising to his feet.

“We?”

God, how could she possibly flush so _completely_ while she was in this state? And how on earth could the sight of it fill his heart with twinkling coals while simultaneously tightening his pants?

Overcome with the primal need to hold her, he moved to her right side as he had an hour or two previously, sitting on the bed, kicking off his shoes, and bringing his feet up. She immediately made room for him in the tiny space, doing her best to scoot over despite the obvious pain it put her through. Once they were settled, his stump across her waist, his head reclining on his only hand, he stared down at her, greeting every freckle he could see with a smile.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’ll be better once my ribs heal,” she conceded, grimacing as she adjusted herself with a huff. “They put a brace on while I was asleep, and it _is_ helping, it’s just—”

He chuckled, and she frowned.

“What’s so funny?”

His head reclined on his arm as he drew circles on her temple with his fingertips, and she careened her head back even further to see him.

“You’re so good,” he told her. “Even when you’re critical about something or someone, you’re the first person to come to their defense.”

Those dazzling eyes rolled at his admission, then focused on something behind him instead of his face. He could tell she’d seen the vase of flowers when her expression became unreadable, and his heart began to thump wildly out of tune.

“You like them?”

The corners of her mouth curved slightly in answer, and her fingers moved to his stump, her nails running along the seam of his compression sleeve.

“What do those say?”

His chest seized, his breath caught in his throat, and his fingers stopped moving. The panic he felt knowing he was going to say those three words aloud, verbalizing them for the first time in front of her, speaking it into existence from the nothing that was the grinding air in his lungs—

A knock on the door rescued him from his predicament, and a moment later, Genna entered the room, an amused smile forming in her lined cheeks when she saw them lying together.

“Major Tarth, I’m happy to know we could make you comfortable,” she taunted, giving Jaime a discerning look as she crossed to stand behind him. She offered her patient a hand, which a blushing Brienne accepted warily. “Dr. Lannister-Frey. I’ve heard nothing but wonderful things about you from the men in my family, and god knows they’re not easy to charm, so consider yourself a rare exception.”

Brienne’s searching eyes found his.

“My Aunt Genna,” he apologized. “She’s my father’s sister—”

“And one of the best neurosurgeons in the goddamned country,” Genna finished for him. “Now, get up…!” She punctuated the command by slapping his ass with the file folder in her hand, and Brienne’s face broke into a grin. “I’ve got to examine her.”

Jaime stood next to the bed, unwilling to leave her while Genna went through a relentless stream of mental exercises, doing her best to see if there would be any lasting damage. Brienne didn’t falter once, and relief laved at his toes when he heard Genna say she was going to be fine.

“And _you,_ sir, need to back off and let her rest,” Genna directed, waltzing right up to him and prodding his chest. “There will be plenty of time for whatever you’re planning when she’s discharged.”

For the third time since Genna had entered the room, Brienne blushed, and Jaime could have kissed his aunt for making the woman he loved feel like a part of the family. Instead, he patted her shoulder, and she bowed her head in acknowledgement before her stout figure retreated toward the door. She opened it to reveal a man with a plain face and mousy brown hair who’d been reaching for the handle, a bouquet of yellow carnations in his other hand.

“Come on in,” Genna said skeptically, standing aside so he could enter with a gentlemanly ‘thank you, ma’am’.

At the sound of his British dialect on the word ‘ma’am’, she raised her eyebrows at Jaime, closing the door behind her. He noticed how Brienne pulled the blankets tighter to her chest at the sight of the stranger, who was all smiles and no malice.

“Hey, Blue…” he said, a hesitant note in his voice. “It’s been a long time, huh?”

 _Blue?_ Who the fuck did this guy think he was?

“What are you doing here?” Brienne asked warily.

The man stepped further into the room, avoiding Jaime as he put the flowers on the windowsill. Did he not realize that yellow carnations were a symbol of disdain?

“It was all over the news, so I rang your dad, and he said—”

“Hyle…”

The man—Hyle, apparently—merely sighed, but the tension in Brienne’s features didn’t ease.

“I was worried,” he disclosed. “I wanted to know you were okay. To talk.”

Her gaze nervously flitted to Jaime.

“Jaime Lannister,” he announced as he moved to stand between them, his left hand outstretched. “And you are…?”

Hyle shook his hand, his grip loose and half-hearted.

“Hyle Hunt, MD.”

He was at least four inches shorter than Jaime, and his ears stuck out from his mile-long face with a vengeance. Releasing the man’s hand, he straightened his back in an attempt to make himself more intimidating.

“And how do you know Brienne?” Jaime continued, curious as to how this stranger could make the best person he knew feel so insecure.

Hyle sheepishly glanced at her.  

“You never told him about me, did you?”

She didn’t answer, and she didn’t have to; Hyle had hurt her. Jaime could see it in the way she set her jaw, her lips forming a thin line as they pressed together. The annoyance he’d initially felt began to morph into something much stronger.

“We were engaged,” Hyle said, his chest puffing out a bit. “Called her mine for eight years before she finally said yes.”

Wait. Eight _years?_

_“Renly told me he didn’t think this guy was good enough for me… Of course, I didn’t listen.”_

Jaime never thought he’d agree with any Baratheon other than Shireen, but he’d be damned if he didn’t agree with Renly’s assessment of the man in front of him.

“Is that so?” Jaime mused, ire churning in his gut. “And why did she leave you? It must have ended badly for you to show up out of the _blue_ with a bouquet of flowers that are the paradigm of scorned love.”

Hyle stepped back as if he’d been slapped, and Jaime immediately knew his accusation was true.

“Jaime…” she warned.

“No, I’d like to know why he’s here,” he said, hounding the man in front of him. “If he hurt you, and lost you, why is he back now? What could he—”

“Jaime.”

Her voice was firm, and the disappointment in her eyes left no space for argument.

“Can you give us a minute…?” she requested.

His heart plummeted through the floor, offense likely strewn across every feature on his face. Rather than reply, he ground his teeth, glowering at an uneasy Hyle and leaving the room without a sound.

* * *

A minute turned into five, then fifteen. He’d told Sansa he would stay with her, so he was trapped right outside her door, forced to endure the fact that her ex-fiancé was alone with her in her room, their words entirely muffled by the thick wood beside him.

Eight years. Hyle had dated her for eight _years,_ and they were engaged for who knew how long following that. Why had she never told him about it? He was her best friend, the one person in the world who understood him better than anyone else…

And yet, _he_ was the one sitting on the floor outside her hospital room, stewing over the fact that the man inside probably knew her better than he ever had. Hyle had been there throughout medical school, during most of her years in the military—hell, he’d _definitely_ slept with her if they’d been together for so long. Not that sex was all Jaime wanted, but the thought of her, wrapped up and tangled in the arms of someone else, panting with delight and groaning their name like a prayer…

All he’d given her was a kiss. One, achingly perfect, glimpse-of-what-could-be kiss. Thank god he’d promised Sansa to stay, because if he hadn’t, he’d be elbow-deep in his brother’s liquor cabinet by now, trying to extinguish the fire in his gut.

The door opened at last, and he sprung to his feet as best he could with only one hand to bear his sore body, bringing himself face-to-face with Hyle. For a few seconds, they didn’t speak.

“I really had no idea that the flowers meant what you said they did,” the shorter man began, his British dialect leveling out his words. He chuckled, then— “In hindsight, it was probably the perfect choice.”

Jaime said nothing, astonished when the man gave him a fond smile.

“Try not to hold it against her. I wasn’t at my best when she ended it, and I hurt her in the process.” He steadily drew a breath, expelling it through his nose. “I’m sure you know how guarded she can be about those sorts of things.”

Swallowing hard, Jaime nodded, and the man clapped him on his arm.

“Love her better than I did, will you?” he said, meaning it.

Jaime saw the guilt that tinted Hyle’s eyes as he squeezed his arm and walked past him, down the hall and around the corner.

Her door was wide open, and Jaime had no clue how to proceed. He’d been on the verge of telling her he loved her only an hour ago, and now he’d undoubtedly have to endure a conversation he wasn’t sure he could handle without saying things he didn’t mean.

Instead of reentering the room with a tangled mind, he headed past the nurse’s station and into the family waiting room, where a Keurig with a decaf pod was seemingly waiting for him. He popped the pod into the coffee maker, sifting through his emotions while it bubbled and spurted.

So what if she hadn’t told him about Hyle? He’d never told her the full truth of how he and Cersei had commenced their toxic, highly illegal relationship… Not that she’d want to hear it.

Not that _he_ particularly wanted to hear details of the woman he loved in a relationship with another man that had lasted longer than his parents’ marriage; a relationship that was meant to culminate in a marriage of its own.

The word he’d felt earlier while he’d held her in his arms, the one he’d never imagined using in his lifetime, sprang to the surface of his thoughts, gasping for air, making itself known. He pressed his eyes closed as the term washed over him, drenching him in both fear and awe, coiling its way into his heart.

_Wife._

Why did he always have to dive straight into the deep end? She’d only just agreed to be together at all, and he had no business thrusting his feelings upon her, but speaking about the people who had hurt them the most wasn’t something ordinary folks discussed when they first started seeing each other; it was something to be examined when the intention to stay was clearer than the water in which he was drowning.

_“…I want you in the house with me. With us.”_

Images of moving into the house with them in the next week, the kids excitedly toting boxes while Brienne griped about feeling useless because of her injuries, filled his mind, filtering the murky water until it became obvious that not only did he intend to stay; _she’d_ been the one to ask it of him.

Cognizant of the conversation that was about to take place and ready to confront it at last, he opened his eyes and took the styrofoam cup of hot black coffee, wondering if the nursing staff had ordered her a tray as he passed by the station, the vase of flowers brightening the world around him.

* * *

When he reentered the room, he tried to smile at her, but his lips failed to convince her of his confidence, and she rubbed her cheeks in what was no doubt an attempt to hide the fact that she’d cried during the conversation she’d had with Hyle.

“I’m sorry I asked you to leave,” she said softly. “You were so upset… I didn’t think you’d want to hear everything.”

Rather than sitting on the mattress like he wanted to, he put his coffee down on the nightstand by the bouquet of flowers so he could pull the smaller chair up to the bed with his one hand, taking the cup again when he was seated.

“I didn’t,” he confessed, “but I’m willing to listen now.”

She nodded, and wove him the tale, thread by thread; how she’d met Hyle during her last year of undergrad; how he was good to her, and didn’t expect her to be anything but herself; how she genuinely grew to love him with all his faults. They had moved in together while they were in med school to help make ends meet, and their incompatibility began to rear its ugly head toward the end of those four years. She expected her five-year residency in Iraq would help them see how much they missed each other, and at first, it had worked; Hyle even proposed to her through Skype three years in, the ring in his hand and his cell phone held up to show he was kneeling, temporarily restoring the magic they had lost… But after two more years away and her first full year as a certified surgeon, she realized she didn’t love him anymore, and he’d already fallen in love with someone else by the time she got back following the explosion. After one last failed attempt to keep up the relationship, Hyle had said horrific things to her, and despite having known no other man for eleven years, she called it off.

“So, why was he here?”

Brienne shrugged.

“He called Dad, found out I was awake…” She played with the fraying hem of one hospital gown sleeve, her gentle hair cascading over her shoulders. “He was worried about me, and I guess he felt guilty.”

Oh.

“He apologized…?”

She raised her eyebrows in confirmation, drawing a breath.

“Not that I willingly accept pity, but it was more than that.” A rough exhale— “It’s been two and a half _years_. It was time to talk about everything.” Her blue eyes went to his, her small smile flirting with her lips. “He liked you. Said you were very protective of me.”

“Like you need protecting,” he taunted, a blatant tone of pleasure in his voice. “If anything, you’ve been my knight in shining armor since I’ve known you.”

Her cheeks reddened under the compliment, and she tugged the blankets up and over her shoulder as she laid on her right side with a cringe of discomfort, facing him.

“What about you?” she murmured. “How long were you and…”

Her words fell short of their mark, but hit closely enough for him to see the target. The dull itch in his belly, the tell-tale sign that his body wanted a drink, was commencing its war, and it didn’t matter; she deserved to know.  

He placed the now-empty styrofoam cup on the nightstand, leaning over to rest his elbows on his knees.

“I don’t remember when it started,” he said honestly, “but it was happening before Mom died. She caught us in the middle of something while she was pregnant with Tyrion, and she freaked out. Cersei cried because she was so distraught, and promised her it wouldn’t happen again…”

A promise she’d broken the night their mother had died on the operating table, slipping into his bed, her fingers slinking beneath the covers to ‘make him feel good’...

“And when did it stop?” Brienne ventured tentatively.

The itch became a scalding weight, fastening his gaze to the floor.

“The night I started drinking.”

Silence.

“So, it’s been… What? Seven years?”

He looked up at the woman he adored, and instead of the repulsion he’d expected to see thrashing in those lovely seas of hers, he saw kindness. When he nodded in affirmation, she actually smiled, reaching out her left hand to brush his cheek, even though it must have hurt her ribs.

“I’m proud of you.”

The simple gesture stole his heart all over again, and he moved his hand—well, stump—up to hold her hand steady to his face as he kissed her palm. They stayed that way for a few moments, basking in the newness and tranquility of both knowing and accepting the heavier parts of one another’s histories without judgment.

“Jaime, would you…”

When she trailed off, he looked at her.

“I think they took my Foley cath out last night, and I’ve _really_ got to use the bathroom,” she finished, turning pink.

He smirked at her ladylike tendencies and rose to his feet, freeing her body from the blankets with his only hand, offering her his forearm to support her as she sat on the edge of the bed with a groan. She took a second or two to right herself, then hoisted herself up to her full height, his left arm snaking around her torso just in case, careful to keep his steadying fingers below her battered ribs. Something caught his attention behind them as she stepped forward in the direction of the bathroom, and he glanced over his shoulder at the bed to see a crimson stain the size of his hand on the sheet where she’d been laying.

_Fuck._

His feet had rooted to the ground, and she noticed, stopping in her tracks. There wasn’t enough time to keep her from seeing it, and the moment she did, her eyes flew wide, and her body went rigid against his own. She bent down with a tortured grunt, lifting the edge of her gown to see a thin stream of clotted blood slowly trailing down her inner thigh, and the impulse to take care of her consumed him, the fact that she wasn’t wearing any underwear entirely forgotten.

He leaned over to jab the call button on the inside of the siderail, waiting in misery for the unit secretary to answer.

“May I help you?”

Jaime cleared his throat, unaware that it had been clogged in the first place.

“Yes, we need a bed change, some washcloths, and a new gown,” he spoke into the air of the room, the tension shattering beneath his words as Brienne slumped on him. “And could our nurse page the OB?”

“Of course, Dr. Lannister. I’ll let them know.”

The speaker clicked off and he gingerly ushered a stumbling Brienne into the bathroom. She sank onto the toilet and started her business, the trickling sound dampened by her quiet sobs, her upper body collapsing into itself over her legs. It gutted him that she’d had to find out like that, and he seated himself on the floor in front of her, his hand stroking up and down her right leg while her cries continued to wrack her sizable frame.

“Why didn’t they tell me?” she eventually demanded, tears running down her face. “If everyone knew, they should have—”

“You’ve only been awake for a few hours,” he reminded her. “I think we were all hoping the OB would speak to you about it.”

“Did they D&C?”

He nodded, the anguish in her eyes persuading him to scoot closer, his stump moving to her left leg.

“When…?” she rasped brokenly.

“The morning after the accident,” he explained. “Sansa got onto my father for it, and made him tell her what it meant, from what I understand.” She smiled a bit at that, and he brought his only hand to her cheek, brushing away her tears with his thumb.  “I hate that this had to happen to _you_ of all people, but you’ve still got us. It’s going to be okay.”

The smile fell.

“How do you know that?” she pleaded.

His head tilted back at her response; he’d never seen her so disheartened.

“Because we love you…” It flowed out of him then, as easily as it had never done so before, the water now crystal clear. “Because _I_ love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was inspired by Sarah Jarosz's 'Build Me Up From Bones'. 
> 
> The language of flowers has woven its way into this fic because of my paternal grandparents, especially my grandmother. She loved flowers, had a dozen rosebushes and orchids and hydrangeas and azaleas and all manner of petaled-things both inside and outside their home. I'd sit in the den when we visited and look at all their colorful books on the subject, and I still can't shake my visit to the rose garden in Portland, OR, more than seven years ago. Color and kind have mystified me for years, so I blame Mamaw for all of that. (And my mother for encouraging it!)
> 
> For those who are irked about the longer update times, please visit this post I made to my Tumblr earlier this week on that very subject: https://ofaclassicalmind.tumblr.com/post/189238913778/honesty-time-yall
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoyed. Kudos and comments appreciated!


	21. Launching From My Chest - Brienne XI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne sees the pieces of a greater puzzle at work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter ahead, folks!
> 
> It took me so long to update because:  
> 1.) I'm in an accelerated bachelor's of nursing program, going into my third month. Made a 98 on a quiz today! Huzzah!  
> 2.) I accidentally started a relationship with the guy I'm eventually going to marry. Oops. 
> 
> All but four or five pages of this was written before the end of December, and quite frankly, if I read through it anymore, I'll either punch my laptop or go insane, so I apologize for grammatical errors/word repitition. :) This is not the end of the line, though! We still have about 1/3 of the story left. Some fluff and... Stuff... Coming soon to an internet-accessible spot near you!

“Because _I_ love you.”

The blood in her heart flew in the opposite direction, seizing her chest, clawing at her throat.

“What…?” 

Jaime smiled, his hand moving to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing away the tears she’d been crying.

“I love you,” he repeated, his own sea-foam eyes going glassy. “We’ve been through so much, and no matter what, we always come out on top. _That’s_ how I know it’s going to be okay.”

It was too much. The accident, his hand, her miscarriage… The loss of it all consumed her; yet here she was, sitting on the toilet taking a piss, free-bleeding into its porcelain bowl while the best man she knew told her he loved her. What had she done to deserve something so pure?

A new series of choked sounds escaped from her mouth, and a sob she’d never quite felt the power of before caused her to shudder in on herself.

“Hey…”

He rose to his knees, pulling her in tightly while she reveled in the potent, bittersweet reality of their less-than-whole bodies finding security in one another. Her head fell forward onto his shoulder, the fingers of his left hand splaying themselves across the back of her neck.

“This isn’t the reaction I was hoping for…” he whispered into her ear.

She huffed, her hands fisting in his shirt.

“I’m on the _toilet,_ Jaime. Be thankful I didn’t punch you.”

The rumble of his chuckle dribbled into her veins through the thin fabric of her gown, warming her to the bone despite the pain, the emptiness—

“I’m not expecting you to say it now,” he told her, pulling back to grab some tissues from the sink counter so she could dab at her face. “I’d rather wait to hear it from you when you’re ready. My feelings aren’t going to fade because you need time to say it, so don’t feel rushed. Just know that I love you, okay?”

 _Jesus,_ this man.

She nodded, the sound of a knock on the door of the room outside pervading the air around them. The door creaked open, and she half-expected Jaime to intercept the young woman, but he stayed right there, his hand and stump caressing her legs while the nurse aide brought what they needed into the bathroom, her expression a mixture of compassionate and pleased.

“I can close the door if you like…?”

“Thank you,” he said, bowing his head in allowance before the girl did as he bid her, the rustle of fabric outside the door indicating she’d begun to strip down the bed.

He climbed to his feet with a groan, probably stiff from his time on the floor, turning on the water and soaking a washcloth in it. After squeezing out the excess, he turned off the faucet and draped the cloth over his only hand like a mitten, leaning over and gently wiping her cheeks. The heat of it relaxed the tension in her throat, the need to cry for something she couldn’t have known or controlled ebbing in the circles he drew against the surface of her face.

“Close your eyes…”

She did, and he brought the damp fabric to her eyelids, grazing her eyelashes and soothing her angry skin. When he was through, she opened them to see him staring at her the way he had so many times before… Except now she knew what it meant.

“Do you need help with your gown?”

Shit. She couldn’t even change by herself with her ribs the way they were. Maybe if—

“It’s okay,” he assured. “I’ll need help getting dressed most of the time now.”

He tried to brush it off, but she saw right through his armor, the newfound lack of independence already wearing him down. Rather than let him wallow, she reached up and untied the neck of her gown with her right hand, and as Jaime clumsily unfolded the gown that had been left for them, a handful of tampons tumbled to the floor, a few sanitary pads breaking their fall; the nurse aide had apparently snuck them into the mix to hide them from people in the hall. Brienne appreciated the thought.

Jaime picked them up and put them on the counter, handing one of the tampons to her. The words had hardly formed in her head when he read her mind and wet another washcloth, holding it out to her so she could clean herself where she needed it most.

“What happened to the driver?” she asked, struggling to her feet so she could wipe between her legs. “Did he make it?”

He froze, and his inability to answer her filled her with dread, her hand no longer moving.

“Jaime…?”

When he turned to her, guilt and torture written all over his face, her stomach scooped in on itself in anticipation, fearing the worst.

“He’s alive, but he’ll never walk again,” he confirmed. “Spinal cord injury. He willingly confessed to the police, and now Bolton’s no longer running for president, my sister’s being transferred to the highest security prison in the—”

“Cersei? But she wasn’t…”

Jaime flinched, looking away from her, and she knew it was beyond the worst.

Fresh tears threatened her, but rather than say something hurtful that she didn’t mean, she clamped down her emotions, continuing to scrub herself, the dark blood on the cloth a vivid reminder of what another woman, a _mother,_ had done to her. She tried to lean down and get what was on her inner thigh, her left side protesting her efforts, and Jaime noticed, easing her back onto the toilet seat before she could injure herself.

“Not so hard,” he admonished when she rigorously began to rub the blood away. “You’ll scrub the skin off—”

“Why?” she commanded, her tone cold. “How could she even—”

“Remember Bolton’s practice in Texas? The one that handles prisoners?”

_Oh._

It didn’t take much deliberation to piece it all together following his reminder of their conversation with the man at brunch.

“But if he’s not there, then who—”

“His son, Ramsay,” Jaime said, his voice low and cautious. “She told him he could have a share of the money when we were killed, and he used one of his supply drivers to arrange it. Bolton had no idea, but my father’s not taking the risk.”

She slowly nodded, taking in the information as she wiped away the last of it. When she was done, she dropped the cloth in her lap and began to roll the gown around it so the nursing staff wouldn’t have to touch it, her right shoulder slipping out of the sleeve without any effort. She tugged at the left sleeve with her right hand—

“Here…”

Jaime knelt again, and she involuntarily shrunk away from his attempt to undress her, the chemical formula for flight still pulsing through her body in high concentrations. He exhaled unevenly, his eyes closing.

“I’m sorry…” he murmured, and when he opened them, she saw that he was on the verge of tears. “If I could go back and somehow fix all of it, I would…” The dampness fell, and her chest ached at how much her hesitation had wounded him. “But I can’t. I wish…” Another ragged breath. “I wish—”

Her right hand reached out to touch his cheek, her thumb cleansing his golden skin of his regret, and with no warning, she leaned forward, covering his mouth with her own to make it clear she didn’t blame him.

He moaned at the contact, his hand securing her there by moving to her cheek, then her neck, the feel of his lips, his bashful tongue, his beard burning her chin merging to form a brilliant symphony of sound and sensation. When she drew back, pulling air into her lungs at last, she was grounded again, safe beneath his touch.

And half of her unsightly body bare for him to see.

She immediately pulled the edge of the gown up and over her right breast to cover herself, but his hand took hers, stroked her knuckles with his thumb, and she released the fabric with a shaky sigh.

He reverently slipped the gown off her shoulder and down her immobile left arm, tossing the ball of soiled fabric in the corner, and she shivered as the rest of her skin met the chilly air of the bathroom, her arms crossing over her belly to preserve her warmth. Jaime only looked over her naked body for a second before swallowing hard, taking the new gown he’d unfolded from the counter. Luckily, the nurse aide had already tied it at the neck, and he draped the hole over her head while she put her right arm into the sleeve. He realized too late that he couldn’t unsnap the left one without two hands, and the defeat in his eyes cracked her wide open.

The fingers of her right hand went to the sleeve, and he understood immediately; together, they unsnapped it, placed it under her arm, and fastened it back into place.

“We make a good team,” he mused.

She smiled a little, bit her lip, and unwrapped the tampon in her hand. He got the message, taking the crumpled gown and rising to his feet, opening the door and leaving it slightly ajar in case she needed him.

When she was through, she flushed, wavering to her feet and clutching the sink, correcting her weak legs. She washed her hands and made her way out to find the bed had been made, a new paper pad put down for her (just in case), the blankets pulled back, beckoning her with their crisp edges. Jaime went back into the bathroom and washed off his hand while she laid back down, trying to find the least cumbersome position for her body. Her eyes fell shut in satisfaction when she rolled onto her right side, and a few moments later she felt him hoist the blankets over her shoulders and up to her neck, another object plopping down on top of her. Opening her eyes, she saw Jaime methodically opening the extra blanket the nurse aide had brought with her from the blanket warmer, his hand putting each corner in its proper place. He sat beside the bed in the chair once he was finished, scooching closer, his fingers brushing her hair back from her face.

“Would you like me to ask Sansa to braid it when they get back…?”

She ‘hmmed’ in response, her weary, tear-worn eyes falling closed again at his touch. With his body so near, his fingers running through her hair, she could almost believe she was at Evenfall, in her own bed; what she wouldn’t give to dream of a normal night in the home they’d made…

* * *

The next time she woke, she was on her back, and Jaime was still seated in the chair beside her, his head resting on his arms, reclining on the bed while he slept. He seemed so peaceful, his worries releasing their hold on him as his breath ran in and out of him, the creases around his eyes dissolving into the golden skin around them. Even with the beard, she could almost see the boy he’d been years ago, before his mother had died, before—

“Mom…?”

Glancing at the couch, she saw Sansa seated there, two to-go boxes of food stacked in her lap.

“We brought you something to eat,” the teenager told her. “The hospital sent you a tray, but it was awful. I got something for Jaime too.”

Brienne reached out to him with her right hand, combing his chin-length hair back from his face as he stirred.

“Mmm…”

Of course he’d purr like a cat.

“Sansa’s here…” she susurrated.

He drowsily lifted his head, looking over to see the teenager.

“You’ve been out for a few hours,” she said to Brienne, rising to her feet with the food. “Bran and Arya went home with Grandpa a little while ago. The nurse aide couldn’t even wake you up for vital signs.”

Jaime sat up then, rubbing the spot by his mouth where he’d begun to drool.

“Have _you_ eaten dinner?” he asked the girl, and Brienne was unsurprised when Sansa shook her head.

“I ate a lot at lunch, so I’ll be okay.”

Jaime rose to his feet and helped the young woman organize Brienne’s tray table so the food could conveniently be placed close to her, refusing to take his own box until she had started eating. He opened it on the bed where he’d been resting his head, and she saw how his pork had already been cut into small, bite-sized pieces. She glanced at Sansa, giving her a proud, grateful nod, and the girl blushed.

“It’s from that Peruvian restaurant down the street,” she explained, overlooking the kindness she had done. “I had them put a quart of chicken soup in the fridge for you for later, in case you get hungry.”

Had Jaime felt this loved when he’d been in the hospital after his incident with Drogo?

“I talked to the OB when she dropped by earlier, before I fell asleep,” Jaime began, and Brienne paused her chewing to stare at him. “It’s normal. You haven’t moved for six days, and it was bound to loosen what the D&C failed to remove. She said not to worry about it.”

After only a second of the raw burning in her lungs, Brienne nodded, swallowing what was in her mouth.

“Did anyone say anything about a discharge date?” she inquired, regarding Sansa carefully.

“Genna came by while you were both asleep, and told me they’re planning a transfer to a general med- _something_ unit in the morning—”

“Med-surg?” Jaime encouraged.

The girl bit her lip, furrowing her brow.

“I think that’s the one,” she contemplated. “Anyway, they want to keep you there for a week before you go home.”

“A _week…?!”_

Jaime’s hand moving to her thigh thoroughly distracted her from her confusion.

“Would _you_ let you go home if you were your patient?” he quizzed, raising his eyebrows.

She sighed, stabbing her piece of chicken more forcefully than was proper, completely cognizant that he wasn’t wrong; she’d keep herself right here, in this bed, for at _least_ another week.

“We’ve already come up with a plan to move your things over to the house,” Sansa laid out, pointedly fixing her gaze on Jaime.

Brienne put her fork down and covered the hand on her thigh with her own, linking her fingers with his to stop the trail of magma his thumb was leaving as it wove back and forth.

“You’ll need help adjusting, and if you’re moving in anyway, we might as well do it now,” the teenager barreled on, her eyes flitting back and forth between the floor, her hands, and Jaime. “We’ve got everything scheduled for tomorrow. Tyrion and Shae are bringing you a few overnight bags in the morning so you can stay with Mom. Dr. Payne came by; said he could do your follow-up appointment here next week, in Mom’s room. We bought a storage container with shelves for Mom’s closet, and—”

“Sansa?”

His interruption jolted her, and the girl stood stock-still, her arms self-consciously folding over her stomach.

“Thank you,” he eased, meaning it, and the way Sansa’s face lit up at his gratitude plucked Brienne’s out-of-tune heartstrings, correcting their sound instantly.

“My dad used to say that in sticky situations, we could only survive by sticking to one another. This way, we’ll all be together when Mom gets out.”

Brienne felt Jaime squeeze her fingers, his stunning eyes meeting hers.

“That sounds perfect.”

* * *

When they were through eating, they spent the rest of the evening watching a French film Brienne hadn’t seen in years, but had an inexplicable urge to revisit. Sansa had brought her laptop from home, and within moments the film had been rented online and they were streaming it, the computer placed on a chair a few feet away so they could all see it.

 _The Umbrellas of Cherbourg_ played its mournful, elegant melody while Sansa methodically brushed Brienne’s hair at Jaime’s request, braiding it in the French style she’d learned as a child; for a brief second, Brienne wondered if the teen remembered the way Arya would sit during the same film when they were so much younger, her sister’s fingers practicing poorly-executed French pigtails she’d proudly wear to school the next day…

She missed home so much.

As the film reached its conclusion, Brienne realized something she hadn’t before; while Geneviève had made the best of her situation, marrying a man who loved her and was willing to claim her out-of-wedlock child as his own, Guy had truly fallen in love with Madeleine over time, and cherished the family he’d made for himself. When Geneviève drove away and his son and wife reappeared, he knelt on the ground, jumping around in the snow and playing with his child, and Brienne knew why she’d sought out the film, the conversation she’d had with Hyle very similar to the one she’d witnessed on-screen moments ago.

_“Toi? Tu va bien?”_

“Are you all right…?” Sansa posed from where she was sitting in the chair, reclining her head on the siderail.

Brienne nodded, wiping at the tears she hadn’t known she’d been crying, nestling further into Jaime’s body where he laid behind her. At the finale’s crescendo, she tugged his left arm further over her lower torso though her ribs ached with the motion, weaving her fingers through his, his closeness reminding her that, like Guy, she’d found her own happiness.

Her father came by to pick Sansa up soon after, and she’d only been gone a few minutes when Jaime’s soft snoring began behind her, slumber slipping over her shoulder and invading her own mind along with Guy’s final words.

_“Oui, très bien…”_

* * *

As promised, Shae and Tyrion came by first thing the following morning before she was transferred to the med-surg unit, dropping off three overnight bags with plenty of clothes for Jaime along with the news of their engagement. Shae let them know that they were invited, of course, along with the rest of the Stark family, begrudgingly showing off the ring Tyrion had bought for her at his insistence. It was gorgeous, an orange, square-cut diamond that suited her complexion surrounded by waves of smaller, more traditional diamonds encased in white gold. Tyrion chattered on with Jaime about the location, the day, the reservations that had been made…

All Brienne could see in her mind was the lingering glint of the stone. The engagement ring Hyle had bought for her had been white gold, so she hoped that if—

“Brienne…?”

Shae’s velvety voice broke her out of the unexpected reverie in which she’d trapped herself, her eyebrows raised in question.

“Sorry,” Brienne apologized, shaking her head. “What was it you asked?”

The fiery woman rolled her eyes, crossing her arms.

“Would you be one of my bridesmaids?” Shae reiterated, as if she’d asked the question a hundred times.

Brienne felt her lips part in shock; never, in all her life, had she been asked to be a bridesmaid. She’d worn a pantsuit and stood by Renly at his wedding to Loras, but to be sought out for her friendship to another woman…

“It’s going to be more private than most ceremonies, and we’re saving our budget for the honeymoon, so don’t feel obliged to buy a dress,” Tyrion appeased. “Just wear something in the color palette, and you’ll be fine.”

She already knew her answer, even with the bribe of not having to wear a dress.

“I’d be glad to.”

Shae sighed with appreciative relief, and Tyrion punched the air.

Nothing, however, compared to the beauty of Jaime’s childlike grin at her agreement to be a crucial element of his brother’s special day.

* * *

They transferred her to the med-surg unit by noon, so Olenna, Margaery, and Sandor had trouble finding her for lunch. The moment they walked in carrying bags of take-out food, Brienne sighed with relief, her right arm outstretched as Marg flew at her.

“I’m so glad you’re okay…” the woman gushed, briefly throwing her arms around her neck.

Sandor stayed back, his signature cocky smile on his face as he shook Jaime’s left hand.

“Arya said it was a navy man that saved you.” He looked over at her. “That true?”

Brienne nodded, the memory of Captain H’ghar’s conversation with Arya drilling itself into her mind alongside the teenager’s fascinated expression.

“Not happy about that, are you?”

She shrugged.

“It’ll be two years from now if she decides to do anything. There’s plenty of time—”

“And do you honestly believe she won’t be as headstrong about it as you were?” Olenna playfully concluded as she sat on the edge of the bed. “No one could have talked you out of it. Your father called me in _tears_ because he knew you wouldn’t change your mind. You’re lucky he didn’t ask me to interfere.”

That certainly sounded like her father, ever the supportive parent.

“She has time,” she repeated. “If it’s something she wants, I have no doubt she’ll succeed…” Her gaze went to Sandor. “Besides, she’s already got the best personal trainer in D.C.”

Her friend scoffed, though his tan cheeks turned a slight shade of pink at the compliment.

They set about arranging the food, and Jaime helped her sit up, his redressed stump having been tended to by her once they’d woken up that morning. It was healing much more quickly than she’d expected, Pod’s fantastic work shining through the neat, patterned stitches that painted a pink line across the end of his shortened arm. She had yet to ask what about the accident had caused it, but if circumstances had necessitated emergency amputation, she assumed it had been thoroughly crushed.

Invisible plumes of Lexington-style barbeque chicken diffused through the room when they opened their trays, and her stomach growled audibly; Sandor always knew the best places to get a chicken dinner within a five-mile radius. Everyone immediately dug in, and it took Brienne a moment to notice that Jaime had the same plate as Sandor: A barbecued half-chicken, its solid state making it inedible for him… Unless he chose to devour it without utensils the way Sandor was doing.

As Marg began to talk about Ros and how well things had been going for them, Brienne discreetly took Jaime’s styrofoam box and placed it on the tray table next to hers, cutting chunks of meat off the bone while everyone else had the decency to ignore it. She carried on conversation throughout her procedure, and when she was done, scooted over so he could recline beside her and share her table.

He stayed by her side when the to-go boxes were thrown away, his left hand reaching down and taking her right, lacing their fingers together, and only stepped out once, when his phone started ringing. The way his eyebrows gathered over his nose indicated it was someone he hadn’t expected.

“I’ll be right outside,” he told her, getting up and pressing a kiss to her cheek before excusing himself from the room.

It was the smug look on Sandor’s face after the door had closed, the smirk and the knowing she noticed there, that riled her.

“What…?” she demanded.

“You love him.” Her lips parted harshly to protest— “Oh, come on, Bri. You look at him like the fucking sun shines out of his ass.”

When she glanced at Olenna for help, the woman had the gall to _shrug._

“He’s not wrong, dear,” the woman conceded. “I’ve seen it for months now. We all have.”

_“Months?”_

Her frantic gaze went to Margaery, who was already grinning.  

“Oh, for heaven’s sakes, child. You could have done _so_ much worse than that boy,” Olenna continued to scold. “And if he doesn’t love you too, then I’m a—”

“He does,” Brienne revealed. “He said so, anyway.”

Marg’s hands clapped together as she laughed with glee, and Olenna rolled her eyes at her granddaughter.

“I wish you and that girlfriend of yours would do something about _your_ relationship. It’d be nice to at least have _some_ adopted great-grandchildren before I die in my withering age.”

The following arguments, updates, and stories carried on for almost thirty minutes, during which Jaime still hadn’t returned. When he did, she saw the redness of his nose and the way the smile he gave them didn’t quite reach his eyes. Margaery placed a goodbye kiss to her cheek, making some excuse for them all to leave that let Brienne know she’d seen it too.

She really was one of the best friends she could have ever asked for.

Once they were alone, Jaime crossed to the window, his shoulders rising and falling with a long breath, his hand moving to hide itself in his pocket.

“That was an old friend of mine, Addam Marbrand,” he elaborated, breaking the silence. “He’s in the army, and he’s stationed at Fort Carson right now…” His finger and thumb snuck up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “The judge decided to transport Cersei to Florence before the trial, for our safety, and something happened to her in transport. Addam was on the crew to intercept her, and thought I should know before the media could…”

His breath stuttered, catching in his throat, and she unsteadily got out of the bed, going to him as his posture hunched over. When he saw her standing beside him, he grimaced, his arms moving around her waist to guide her back toward the bed.

“You should be—”

“Jaime...”

Her tone left no room for debate, her feet grounding them both and her heart throbbing at the pain that etched its way into his face. He nodded, tears dripping from the strong line of his jaw as they sat on the sofa together.

“She’s gone.” His sea-foam eyes slammed shut at his admission. “They put her in transport with Gregor Clegane. Somewhere between the airport and the prison, he killed the guards and got hold of her…” A shudder tempered by a wince— “He ripped out her _throat,_ Brienne.”

Dear mother of _god_.

She knew her mouth had fallen open in uncontrollable shock, and wrapping her right arm around him when his head lowered into her lap, the toll of his emotions overtaking his body… It was second-nature. She carded her fingers through his hair and soothed him as he cried into her gown, trying not to imagine the crimson that must have highlighted Cersei’s lifeless emerald stare, coating her lips more brightly than any lipstick could have done; her prison uniform, dyed a feminine pink by the drying substance…

She’d been a terrible, ruthless woman. She’d gone so far as to try to have her killed not once, but _twice,_ and yet Brienne couldn’t bring herself to see such a violent end as justice. And now the man who’d lost so much in the last week, who’d given her so much, had lost his sister. His _twin_ sister, with whom he’d had a more-than-complicated relationship for most of his life.

Her hands continued their work in comforting him for what felt like hours, her voice humming a low tune the way she would for the girls when they were younger. At one point, a stone-faced Tywin entered the room to supposedly inform them himself, but his feet halted, the damage obviously already done. Brienne had never seen the oldest Lannister look so unsure of himself, and when he bowed his head in acknowledgment, she did the same. He left without a word, the door closing itself behind him.

Once the sun had set, and her phone lit up and jingled across the room with what was likely a text from Sansa, Jaime lifted his head and sniffled, rubbing his sleeve against his nose. He rose to his feet, extending his hand to her, and the obstinate expression on his face compelled her to take it, her thumb stroking his knuckles as he led her back to the bed.

Sansa had texted to let her know Jaime’s things had been thoroughly transferred into the house, but that they were still unpacking, and wouldn’t be able to stop by for dinner. There was the promise of pre-ordered delivery and a FaceTime call before bed, both of which were agreeable. At the very bottom, the gray cloud read:

_We saw it on the news just now. She really was the worst sort of person, but I learned a great deal from her. Tell Jaime we’re all sorry for his loss, and that if he needs anything, we’re here._

Brienne felt the tension that had gripped her body relax into the mattress with the realization that, without intending it, her family had become _his_ family. The girls adored him, Bran looked up to him and sought him for answers she couldn’t give… Even her father had become protective of him.

“What does it say?” he questioned.

Rather than read it aloud, she handed him her phone, and fresh tears welled in his eyes as he perused the message.

“Do you want to go home for the night?” she suggested. “You could always—”

“No,” he said hoarsely, shaking his head as he put her phone on the nightstand. “I should stay here with you.”

She sighed; he could be more stubborn than _she_ was sometimes.

“Why don’t you call Tyrion?” she countered. “He and Shae could stay in the guest room, and you could spend some time with him…”

At the mention of his brother, she saw some of the sadness melt away, leaving room for confusion to slither in.

“But you need me.”

A smile lit her from the inside out, and her fingers sought his.

“I’ll be fine. You need him more than I need you right now, and the house has been dry for weeks,” she reassured, squeezing his hand. “Go home, Jaime.”

She saw his Adam’s apple bob as he thought about it, eventually nodding in agreement. His fingers gripped hers, bringing them to his lips.

“Thank you.”

He leaned forward, giving her an unhurried, temperate kiss that liquefied her knees so much she was grateful she was seated on the bed. When he pulled back, his knuckles brushed her cheek, his sea-green eyes so different than the cold emerald ones she’d pictured earlier, their color smoothing out the wrinkle in her thoughts.

“I love you,” he breathed.

All she could do was bite her bottom lip, the feathers in her belly tickling an ‘I know’ out of her before he walked toward the door, the vase on her nightstand catching her attention.

“Jaime…?”  

His feet stopped as he turned, cocking an eyebrow at her.

“What _do_ the flowers mean?”

He smirked to himself, pressing the handle of her door with his remaining fingers.

“Nothing I haven’t already told you.”

A blush heated her cheeks, and the authentic laugh she received in return made his departure much easier.

* * *

The rest of the evening was quiet, for the most part; she’d managed to do some job searches for Jaime, especially since he wouldn’t be able to work as a surgeon anymore; not to mention, as of the day she woke up, he was no longer allowed to remain under his father’s employment due to their originally-fake-but-now-very-real relationship.

But what could Jaime _do?_ He was a surgeon; medicine and the care of others ran through his genetic code in highly-concentrated levels, thanks to his mother and father.

Suddenly, she remembered what superb work he’d done with Pod; his patience, his understanding… How he could tweak his words to match the needs of his student.

 _He could be a professor of medicine,_ she thought. His dyslexia would loathe the grading, and his paycheck would be considerably less, but overall, she figured it would fulfill him in the way he enjoyed most: Helping others. After all the work he assisted her with, he deserved the same (if not more) effort, and if that meant coming home to a pile of papers, she’d be glad to do it.

A knock on the door distracted her from her computer screen.

“Come in,” she called, her stare never moving from the website she’d been browsing.

Rather than the nurse or nurse aide she’d been assigned for the night shift, an old man with thin, blunt white hair and sunken eyes entered her room, a white cane being used to guide him along his blind way.

“Major Tarth, is it?” he proclaimed when his cane hit the chair by her bed.

She nodded, realizing too late that he couldn’t—

“Yes,” she corrected herself. “Are you one of my doctors? Am I still able to—”

His hand raised itself elegantly, effectively silencing her while he sat in the chair.

“Who _I_ am doesn’t matter,” he explained. “Not really. I’m here because one of my secretaries mentioned Jaime Lannister will no longer be working at Baelor Hospital. Is this true?”

Who _was_ this man? A family member of Jaime’s she’d never met?

“Yes,” she reluctantly told him.

“And has he found gainful employment since the accident?”

Her eyes fell to her laptop, the fruitless efforts she’d made beating her over the head.

“No. I can’t find anything, and he’s been too busy taking care of me to think about it.”

The man chuckled, his creased face brightening.

“He’s always been a devoted man. I told him long ago, when he was a boy, the depth of his love would be the death of him. It nearly was, if I’m not mistaken…?”

She felt the gravity of his words settle coarsely in her throat.

“Why are you here?” she accused instead. “I don’t know you, and unless you’re a relative of Jaime’s, I don’t feel comfortable discussing his personal matters with you.”

The stranger only smiled.

“Have you ever heard of Lieutenant Duncan Pennytree?”

The man’s ancient history with Jaime, let alone the mention of her favorite army hero, puzzled her.

“Of course, you have. Every person who ever enlisted in the army heard of him,” the old man continued. “Posthumously received the Congressional Medal of Honor for exceptional valor in the field for his efforts in Vietnam. In his company’s final hour, he managed to go back in and rescue every one of his men, pulling them out of danger and sacrificing the life he had waiting for him at home.” His smile faded as he finished the legend she’d known for years. “That’s where all the stories stop. No one remembers the fiancée who was waiting, already seven months pregnant when the telegram arrived. Nobody mentions the shame she faced at seventeen for bearing his child out of wedlock, or the way both families disowned her. They don’t even speak of her resilience in uprooting herself to Savannah, Georgia.”

Savannah…?

“No one could have predicted she would take over an antique store for the woman she’d sought shelter from, or that her daughter would grow up to marry into the family of the mayor one town over.”

No. It wasn’t possible. He couldn’t mean—

“That same daughter attended Yale University, made a family for herself, and changed her part of the world for the better until her untimely death thirteen years later. Cancer, I believe it was.”

Brienne pressed her eyes closed against the few images that assaulted her mind, though she couldn’t remember much from those early years; an empty chair at her preschool graduation; persistent dark circles under her mother’s breathtaking, aquamarine eyes; the beeping of machines in a clean, white room…

The first time she’d ever seen her father cry.

When she opened her eyes, the old man was staring through her without seeing.

“You’re more than a Tarth, major,” he decreed. “You’re a Targaryen. And a Pennytree, and a Stark... And, if my assessment of your feelings is correct, you’re the better kind of Lannister at heart.”

The screen of her laptop went black as she sat there, completely unable to believe what this man was telling her.

And yet—

“You’re wondering if it’s all a lie,” he continued with a smile. “I’m a stranger, and a friend of the Lannisters. Why should you believe me?” A chortle. “I think if you took a good look at yourself, you might believe it too.”

The man expelled a breath as he rose to his feet, both hands resting on his cane.

“Tell Mr. Lannister he has an interview with Mother’s Mercy Tuesday morning at 11 AM. Sixth floor, education wing, room 633. He’ll be interviewed by Yohn Royce, a former protégé of mine. Good man, but a remarkable teacher.”

The man had come to the same conclusion she had about teaching, which wasn’t abnormal, but her mind went back to the task Jaime would be undertaking. Would he be happy? Would it be too much work?

The man’s cheeks winked at her.

“If he _does_ choose a different path, I have no doubt that he will continue to do great things with you by his side.”

She’d hardly gathered the strands of her words, dumbfounded in the wake of the man’s uncanny ability to read her mind, barely scrambling the letters together by the time he reached the door.

“Who are you?”

He froze, and for a long moment, she wasn’t sure he’d heard her. She woke her laptop, eager to iMessage Jaime the details she’d been given—

“My father was Maekar, CEO of Targaryen Industries…” He paused. “My brother, Aeg, took the title after him when I refused, and he was followed by my nephew, Aerys.”

Brienne gaped, her fingers trembling as she placed the pieces together.

“You’re a Targaryen.”

He directed his blank, aquamarine eyes back to her; eyes the same shade as her mother’s.

“And so are you.” His hand found the door and pulled it wide. “11 AM, major. Royce will not tolerate tardiness.”

Before she could ask any more questions, he was gone.

* * *

The first thing Jaime did was groan when he answered his phone.

“I appreciate the thought, but Aemon’s just feeling sorry for—”

“Aemon?”

“Yeah, Aemon Targaryen. He’s the chair of Baelor’s board of directors. I thought you’d have run into him by…” The way he trailed off signified a change in thought. “Well, actually, it makes sense.”

 _“What_ makes sense?” she demanded, her frustration seeping through.

“I didn’t know until my hearing, so don’t take it out on me, okay?” he prefaced. “Aemon’s probably been keeping his distance because your dad’s never liked that side of the family for what they did to your grandmother.”

Wait, her grandmother? He couldn’t be implying what the stranger had told her was _true?_

“My grandmother was a Blackfyre,” she maintained. “Rhae _Blackfyre,_ she wasn’t—”

“Maybe you should talk to your dad about it,” he suggested. “Aemon _could_ have been lying, but I know his decision to let me return to practice was based on your merit as his sister’s granddaughter. He’s well-respected for his wisdom, and I’ve never had any reason to doubt him.”

She laid there, mulling over his words, her memory of the brief conversation she’d shared with the man reverberating through her.

“He told me my grandfather was Lieutenant Duncan Pennytree,” she murmured. After Jaime didn’t respond… “He was—”

“I know who he was,” Jaime said with a chuckle. “Addam and I would read stories about him when we were kids. I’m just… I don’t know, surprised. Well, less surprised than _some_ might be, but that’s only because I know you.”

A smile touched her face.

“Do _you_ believe him? Aemon?”

In the silence that followed, she could have sworn she felt his fingers curling around her own in the shadows of the hospital room.

“I believe in _you.”_

Her smile deepened, the tightening of her stomach illogical, inconvenient, and altogether euphoric.

“Then I’ll think about it.”

* * *

He visited her Tuesday night, catching her off-guard with take-out and a surly expression on his face.

“Aemon’s friend liked you,” she gathered, hoisting her body up in the bed.

Jaime shrugged, lifting the bag with his only hand and lowering it onto the tray table.

“Royce isn’t the warmest person I’ve ever met, but he knows what he’s doing. I suppose he thinks I do too.”

The way he was smirking at her over his reading glasses suggested…

“You got it.”

His grin spread its sunshine through the room.

“I start Monday morning,” he verified, removing the frames and pocketing them. “It’s going to be mostly observation at first, but it’s something.”

“Have you told your father?”

He hesitated, his left hand sweeping his hair behind his ear.

“Aemon must have said something. My father called me to his office as soon as I was out of AA. Figured you were hungry, so I stopped by that Peruvian restaurant and—” 

“What did he say?”

With a dense sigh, he sat on the edge of her bed by her feet.

“He wasn’t upset, so he must have suspected it would come down to another hospital. Besides, he made it pretty clear that, at the end of the day, keeping you close is more important than my continuation in the company.”

She frowned, bewildered.

“I don’t understand.”

Jaime huffed in apparent disbelief.

“He cares about you. About your family…” he extrapolated, nodding at the pendant around her neck. “If it were my guess, he wants to make sure you’re safe. Just because Cersei’s—” His eyes pressed shut, and he inhaled through his nose. “Just because Cersei’s gone doesn’t mean other people can’t hurt you. The world knows you matter to a highly political man; that alone puts you and the kids in a vulnerable position, whether Cersei’s a threat or not.”

His placid seas met her own, much more serene than she’d anticipated given—

“Are you okay?” she whispered, reaching for his hand.

He swallowed hard, then nodded.

“I will be. Sansa… Sansa helped,” he disclosed, and Brienne felt her face stiffen in concern. “I went home that night feeling ashamed for acting like an idiot. Sansa got sick of my moping, gave me a ‘come to Jesus’ talk, and reminded me that I had every right to cry for the sister I should have had; ‘the sister I deserved’, as she put it.”

Her fingers stroked his thumb, but every bone in her body (even the broken ones) yearned to tell Sansa how proud she was; how much she missed them all. Holding them close, laughing with them—

She was jolted out of her melancholic spell when his fingers tightened over hers.

“They miss you too.”

Suddenly, the words he’d said to her earlier tingled on her lips, choking her with their truth. Her voice managed to turn them into a ‘thank you’ instead, but the way he brought her knuckles to his mouth for a kiss made her suspect he knew exactly what she’d wanted to say.

* * *

The door opened, and a resounding ‘surprise!’ filled her ears, rattling the old windows with its volume. Jaime walked past her, dutifully carrying her bag of essentials beyond the ‘Welcome Home’ sign that had been hung in the living room above the kitchen bar. There were streamers, various snacks had been laid out on the dining room table, and all of their friends had shown up for her return. Ros and Marg were holding plates of cake, Olenna was chatting with her father on the back porch, Sandor excused himself to go box with Arya in the backyard, Tyrion and Shae were beaming at her... Even Gilly and Sam had attended, the boys in tow. The oldest, Sam Jr., was sitting next to Bran and pouring through books, happily mispronouncing words while Sansa carefully held Jon in her lap, the infant’s face shining up at her.

She took a paper plate and filled it with as much food as her left arm could manage, mingling with everyone and setting plans for Friday night dinner the following week. Updates from everyone flooded in with regards to goings-on; Marg had a sneaking suspicion that, since Tyrion had been caught up in a serious conversation with Ros, she might be the next one to get engaged, while Tyrion and Shae poured over more details for the wedding in two months. Olenna let her know that her sources had been made aware of Sansa’s soon-to-be-finished early-decision application for SCAD, who were looking forward to seeing what the girl’s portfolio offered…

None of these compared with the fact that, when Brienne glanced at the kitchen, Tywin Lannister was standing in front of her sink, his button-down shirt rolled up to his elbows, his wet hands rinsing the dishes that needed to go in the dishwasher. Jaime stood at his side, silently taking the rinsed dishes in his one hand and placing them on the rack, adjusting the way each plate and utensil was situated as best he could.

The image toyed with a portion of her heart she wasn’t aware existed, and the fingers of her right hand went to the lion’s head pendant around her neck as Aemon's words floated to the front of her mind like petals in a stream.

_"...You’re the better kind of Lannister at heart."_

Even after all she’d lost—Renly, Cat, the miscarriage—she could tell that when she’d walked into Tywin’s office that first day, not only had she absolutely nothing to lose… She’d had everything to gain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events of this chapter (and some of the next) were inspired way back when by Radical Son's 'Welcome Home'. 
> 
> If any of you are rereading the story, I tweaked some things to make sure I'm keeping up with my own canon... Which is *really* hard after 100K. Mostly timeline things, though! 
> 
> Comments, kudos, bookmarks, cookies, Time-Turners-so-I-could-get-more-sleep-while-doing-this-and-nursing-school encouraged and accepted. Love and peace to you all, and I'll update again in the (hopefully near) future. (*hugs*)


	22. A Row of Captured Ghosts - Jaime X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime sees *her*.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, huge shout out to my *brand new beta*, seralicetarrant! You were the bomb at helping me edit this beast, and I'm glad to have someone who knows my characters as well as I do on my team!
> 
> Also, yes, the rating has changed. Pfft, like it wasn't going to or something. *playfully rolls eyes*
> 
> Casting Note: Pleased to announce that Rhiannon Tarth, Brienne's mother, will be played (mentally) by Miranda Otto (the Eowyn version, but with shorter hair). 
> 
> Enjoy, my dears!

_He’d gotten the call as soon as he climbed into the passenger seat of Selwyn’s sedan after AA, and yet his father didn’t even raise his eyes from the paperwork on his desk when he entered the room, his glasses delicately perched on the end of his long nose._

_“So, you’ve decided to take the job.”_

_It wasn’t a question, and Jaime knew it._

_“Yes,” he confirmed, straightening his shoulders. “Who did you have to pay to find out?”_

_Tywin’s gaze met his own at last._

_“I didn’t. I presumed as much when Dr. Targaryen turned in his resignation early this morning and mentioned he was having breakfast with Yohn Royce. Royce has been looking to fill that teaching position for over a month, and I know the two men keep in contact, so I called Tyrion around 11:30._ He _said you were unavailable, and around 2 PM the job posting was removed.”_

_The sly devil. But that meant—_

_“Aemon’s retiring?”_

_The oldest Lannister removed his glasses with a sigh, crossing his legs and linking his fingers atop his ankle._

_“Not retiring;_ leaving,” _Tywin clarified._ _“He’s been the chair of our board for nearly fifty years, and if it weren’t for his new diagnosis, I have no doubt one day we’d find him dead in his office.”_

_“Diagnosis…?”_

_Another disappointed sigh, a shake of the head—but none of it stung as hard as it used to._

_“Yes. He’s suffered from heart failure for nearly a decade, and while it would_ seem _he_ _is doing fine, his enzyme levels say otherwise. His physician has recommended he get his affairs in order and find a place to…_ Rest, _as it were.”_

 _That would_ _explain why Aemon visited Brienne rather than called him about the job himself; he likely thought it was his only opportunity to meet her. Jaime sat in his mother’s barrel chair, the fact that their last Targaryen ally had no one to turn to in his final months chucking wrenches into the gears of his mind._

_“Where will he go?”_

_His father shrugged._

_“Likely some place further south. You know how Targaryens prefer the heat.” The man shifted, reaching forward to take his golden lion’s head pen into his hand. “How is Major Tarth? You haven’t been staying with her the last two days…”_

_“She told me to go home and spend time with Tyrion,” he defended._

_“‘Home?’”_

_Tywin’s lifted eyebrow gave away the question, and Jaime refused to answer. After a long moment, his father adjusted his glasses, intent on changing the direction of the conversation._

_“She’ll be staying on as chief, then, I assume?”_

_Jaime nodded, a smirk brushing his lips before he had the chance to mask it. Oddly enough, his father mirrored his expression._

_“Good. She’ll be safer here, where I can keep an eye on her. It would be best to keep the Starks nearby as well, now that Martell is on the scent.”_

_The innermost tissue of Jaime’s stomach warped in on itself; surely Martell didn’t know about his relationship with—_

_“The manner of Cersei’s death has raised questions. He suspects something is amiss.”_

_Oh._

_“Does he have a reason to?”_

_The suggestion slipped out, a thought that had occurred to Jaime more than once during his time with Tyrion. The way his father’s brow distorted in pure disbelief_ almost _made him believe he’d hurt the man._

 _“For god’s sake, have you no faith in me?” Tywin accused, his eyes narrowing. “I would have locked her away in the farthest reaches of the world, but I would have_ never _ordered that creature to utterly annihilate my own daughter. For all her faults, she was still a Lannister.”_

_Jaime chuckled, though now his stomach felt more akin to molten lead at the awful, blood-saturated image of his sister his father had conjured in his mind._

_“Of course not. You’ve never liked messes,” he spitefully agreed._

_Tywin frowned, his ire forcing him out of his chair to stand beside the window, clicking the golden pen a few times as he stared out, down onto the street below._ His _street._

 _“Clegane’s uncontrollable wrath against your sister is still circulating in the press, and if Martell gets wind of what_ truly _happened to Elia, or finds any flaw in Pycelle’s autopsy results for her, he’ll have every reason to suspect the circumstances of Vice-President Stark’s death. With Aemon leaving, there will be no one to take over for Targaryen Industries, and the company will be liquidated within weeks of his passing. If Martell finds the truth, he can slither into the pot, coil it around, and undo the funding this company has used to keep itself afloat for well over thirty years. We’ll_ all _be left with nothing.”_

_Jaime blinked once, then again, digesting what his father had revealed, words the man had once said to him more than a year ago echoing in his ear:_

“With power comes reputation, and with reputation, safety. Without one pillar, the other two crumble.”

_“Are you telling me you’re still worried for Brienne’s safety?” he demanded, moving to sit on the edge of his seat. “Or are you afraid she’s going to find out what really happened to her friends the Starks and never trust you again?”_

_His father said nothing, but the way his eyes flickered to the floor for a fraction of a second gave Jaime his staggering answer._

_Brienne already knew. She’d always known… And yet, somehow, she’d befriended_ him, _the son of the man who’d arranged the deaths of four people whom she’d cared about so dearly. She’d allowed_ him _to see the most vulnerable parts of her heart, trusted him, taught him what it meant to stand for something… God, what had she_ not _given him, despite whose son he was?_

_He had the urge to leave his father’s office and go to her room, wrap his arms around her, and never let her go; but this conversation, the one involving her future, had to be finished._

_“What_ are _you afraid of, then?” he conceded._

_The expression on his father’s face stiffened, his pupils dilating in response to his fight-or-flight response—and there was only one emotion that could do that to the old lion:_

_Protectiveness._

_“The initial—_ event, _as it were—was only meant to affect two people. In my continued ignorance, we managed to needlessly kill two others and continually place the remaining Starks in danger due to our alliance with Major Tarth and your sister’s unexpected contempt. I consider their cooperation and future an integral part of—”_

_“You’re starting to care about them,” Jaime mused. “All of them. The Starks’ safety matters to you just as much as hers.”_

_The old man scoffed, crossing his arms._

_“Don’t be absurd.”_

_Jaime shrugged, rising to his feet._

_“Fine. You don’t want the Starks to know, and I won’t be the one to tell them,” he assured, jabbing the desk with his only index finger. “But someday, you_ will _have to tell them. You both will.”_

 _“We_ all _will,” Tywin corrected. “You’ve also played a part in that ignorance, and while such a decision made on_ my _part won’t surprise them, a lie of that magnitude from the two of_ you _most certainly will.”_

_The smile on Jaime’s face froze into a frown, his head suddenly aching with the weight of his father’s words._

_“For now, their safety—and hers—depends on her maintaining her position at Baelor. While I’m glad you’ve found a job that will hire you despite your recent handicap and history of alcohol abuse, I can’t afford to care about anyone, not when my sole purpose is soothing the storm that’s threatening the Lannister name.”_

_Jaime bowed his head and left the room, fuming at the man’s cold demeanor, and grappling with his own self-disappointment at realizing he shouldn’t even have expected as much as he’d received; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a meeting with his father that didn’t end in the urge to drink._

_It was only when he was standing in the takeout line at the Peruvian restaurant, picking up dinner for Brienne and himself, that he realized his father had, in his own twisted way, congratulated him on his new job… Which gave him an idea._

* * *

He got Tyrion’s text as he waited for Brienne to finish dressing herself after the nurse aide had helped her with her bra, her refusal for further assistance despite her need for it endearing and simultaneously frustrating as all hell.

_He came. No idea what you said to convince him to be here, but you must be smarter than even *I* give you credit for. He’s helping Selwyn set things up._

“Who is it?” she inquired, her head finally emerging from the old GWU t-shirt she’d chosen.

The bubbling joy within him curved his lips into a smile that made him shrug. It was a surprise, so he’d decidedly keep it that way.

“You’ll see.”

She huffed in irritation, and he placed his phone in his pocket, tossing her backpack over his shoulder.

Later, when he caught her gazing thoughtfully at them from where he stood beside his father helping with clean-up toward the end of the party, she blushed, and the way she bit her bottom lip in modesty sent a spark down his spine, sprinkling the roots of the flowers she’d planted in his heart with a little more water.

“You _are_ going to take care of that, aren’t you?” his father implied, interrupting Jaime’s thoughts by gluing his emerald eyes on the healing stump. “Pycelle knows the owner of a company in Germany that specializes in myoelectric prostheses. Perhaps I should give him a call.”

Of course his father would see his handicap, the very symbol of the best choice he’d ever made in his life, as a hideous reminder of his failure to uphold the family name. His disappointment must have registered on his face, because—

“For god’s sake, this isn’t about you and your precious pride,” Tywin scolded. “This is about the woman sitting in that room, who has already sacrificed more than she should for your sake _and_ the sake of this family. You don’t really expect her to do all the grading once you start teaching, do you? On top of her own job?”

Damn. He had a point. And that was _exactly_ what Brienne would be willing to do.

“Fine,” he begrudgingly relented. “I’ll think about it.”

His father blinked for a second, obviously not expecting that reaction.

“Good,” he said, handing him another casserole dish to put in the dishwasher.

And the silence continued.

* * *

His father made to leave about an hour after the celebration, but reluctantly accepted Brienne’s invitation to watch Sandor and Arya go through some fight choreography they wanted to show everyone before he left. Jaime couldn’t remember the last time his father had been so pleasantly impressed by anything (except Brienne), and he actually said goodnight to the teenager as he left, stunning Arya… Which was no easy feat.

Before Clegane went home, he slapped Jaime on the back and shook his left hand, telling him how jealous he was that of all the people who got to punch Ron Connington, Jaime had been the one to do it.

“You’re a good man, Lannister,” he confessed, heading down the porch steps a few seconds later.

As Jaime went back into the house, a smile on his face, he realized he hadn’t felt so happy in his life, hand or no hand.

Soon after the kids had gone to their rooms for the night, and Tyrion and Shae retreated to the guest bedroom for their final sleep in the house for a while. Ghost was already curled up on the bed with them in their room, eager to sleep near Brienne for the first time in over two weeks. As soon as they finished watching a few episodes of ‘The Good Place’ (a series the new household had begun watching in her absence), she winced, climbing out of bed.

“What is it?”

She groaned.

“I ache, I smell, I’m tired. I never thought I’d say this, but I desperately want to lie in my tub and do nothing for a little while.”

She slowly started for the bathroom, unbuttoning her sleep shirt as best she could with one hand. Without needing to be prompted, he got up and followed her, rinsing the tub before plugging it up and running the warm water.

“Bubbles?”

Brienne shook her head, taking a deep breath and untying her joggers, which promptly puddled at her feet. He closed the door, more than aware that she wouldn’t want the kids to know they were in there together if one of them woke up and came down to the kitchen, and when he turned back around, she was standing before him in nothing but her bra and panties, her shirt on the floor atop her joggers. The grooves of her muscles were stroked with scabs of varying lengths here and there where she’d been damaged by the accident, and the skin over her left ribs and pelvis was mostly yellow, but still a beastly purple in places that made him hurt _for_ her.

“Do you think you’re up to it?” he hesitated.

When she nodded after a second, he didn’t press the issue; she knew her body’s limits far more than he did… Which, all things considered, was probably not what he should be imagining when his girlfriend was about to climb into a tub, naked and trembling. 

Damn, he wished his pants were more restrictive. In a minute or two, she’d surely see his pajama bottoms tenting if he wasn’t careful, so he opened the bathroom closet and took down a towel, placing it within reach of the tub.

“All right. I’ll just, um…”

He could feel his lower body stirring, begging for something it couldn’t have when she was so fragile, and he turned to the door, reaching for the handle—

“Will you stay with me?”

Her voice was broken, and when he moved to face her again, the helplessness and shame he saw there broke him too, all previous thoughts vacating his mind as he bowed his head in agreement. She sighed, swallowed hard, and reached behind herself with her right hand to unclasp her bra, cursing as she tried but failed to free herself. After another attempt, she gave up, her sapphire eyes tentatively meeting his.

“Could you…”

He felt his breath stop, unsure if he could go through with something so small yet simultaneously monumental. This wasn’t like the moment in the hospital when she’d been sitting on the toilet, weak and aware of the blood on her gown; blood his own sister had caused. No, this was something much more. It was seeing her like this, vulnerable and defeated, wanting _him_ by her side for this… And it terrified him.

Her chin quivered when he didn’t agree right away, confirming at once that she too knew the gravity of what she needed from him.

“Are you sure?” he whispered, aware that there would be no going back from this choice.

And _she_ had to make it.

She lifted her chin, the tears that had been swimming in her gorgeous seas ebbing as she squared her shoulders, fixing him with a brave stare.

“I trust you.”

His feet wouldn’t uproot themselves from the bathroom rug, the plush coils of fabric suddenly chains against his toes.

_“Trust doesn’t come easily to me, all right? You have to understand that. I can’t... I need time.”_

What she’d said to him at Tommen and Myrcella’s funeral nearly a year ago burst through his head, and here he was, letting his own insecurities eat away at the very strength she needed from him.

_“Then you have it.”_

His response to her at the time fueled him now, nudging his feet forward as she turned around, giving him his best shot. Even with one hand, he had the bra unclasped in a single try, her bare back before him at last, the final piece in place. His fingers swept her braid over her shoulder, and he ever so carefully traced the line of her shoulder with his thumb, drawing a line down her arm to take her fingers between his, his forehead nestling into the muscle below her neck. The sigh he released came from somewhere so deep he hadn’t known it existed, and a trail of soft bumps ignited on her skin.

“Ready?”

At first, there was no response, but then she nodded, taking his hand with her own as she hooked her right thumb beneath the waistband of her panties, her message clear.

 _God,_ he wanted her, and not only her body; her goodness, her resilience, her stubbornness, all of it.

He released her hand and followed suit, tugging the last barrier over her hip as she did the same on her right, and it fell to the floor. She didn’t move, and he could see the way she was compelling her breath to even out, acclimating herself to the situation. Rather than let her struggle alone, he gingerly wrapped his arms around her resilient torso, bringing her bare back to his bare chest, resting his chin on her shoulder. When he felt her body relax into his, her hands covering his hand and stump, he smiled to himself, only noticing the water had reached an appropriate height when the sound of gurgling from the overflow caught his ear.

Pressing a kiss to her neck, he let her go and turned the lever to the ‘off’ position, and she carefully lowered herself into the tub, a groan of comfort filling the air as the heat encompassed her. She was a goddess, her braid damp on the end, her stalwart body lying in the midst of water that paled in comparison to the breathtaking blue eyes that met his.

“You can sit, you know.”

He nodded in agreement, perching himself on the opposite edge of the corner tub, one foot up, one down.

“It’s healing nicely,” she breathed, smiling. “Your wrist.”

Giving it a peek, he shrugged.

“It’s okay,” he teased. “I’m just disappointed I’ll never be able to get that matching hand tattoo Tyrion and I had planned for—”

She disapprovingly kicked water out of the tub and soaked his pants, and the look of what must have been surprise on his face sent her into giggles.

Major Brienne Tarth, Chief of Surgery and United States Army Surgeon, naked and _giggling._

In an act of defiance, he stood, clumsily removed his wet pajama bottoms, and sat back down on the edge in only his boxer briefs, placing his feet in the water beside hers and splashing her back. The astonishment he saw melted into joy that he’d only ever seen the children bring out of her, except this time, it was _him._

He loved her so much he thought it was going to rip him in half, so he reached down and grabbed one of her feet and placed it in his lap, massaging it as well as could be expected for a one-handed man.

“Damn it,” she said, catching her breath, “I was trying to _thank_ you for—”

“I know,” he confirmed. “And I was trying to stop you.”

Punctuating his comment with a slight tickle of the sole of her foot, she chuckled, stealing it back and submerging it.

“This reminds me of the shower,” she said, smiling wistfully. “The one where you told me about Aerys, remember?”

He smirked.

“Except this time, _you’re_ the naked one.”

Her gaze fell to the tub, and without warning, she moved herself so that her head would be able to rest against his knees, reaching up and taking his stump in her hands. He leaned over to accommodate her, doing his best to ignore that he now had a perfect angle to see her breasts and the patch of light blonde hair between her thighs. The fingertips of her left hand traced the line as carefully as possible, and the scar that was still forming there tingled at her touch.

“Phantom pain?”

“Mmm.”

He kissed the top of her head when he saw her chest shudder with an uneasy exhale.

“I’d do it again. Every day, if that’s what it took.”

She nodded, bringing her lips to the skin above his wrist.

“And I’d never ask it of you.”

Her chin lifted so she could see him, and the—god, he wanted to call it love—in her eyes made him want to _do_ something about it.

The palm of his hand rose to cup her cheek as he brought his mouth to hers, and she shifted in the water to get closer to him… Inadvertently knocking his feet off the bottom of the tub and landing his body, boxer briefs and all, in the tub behind her.

They broke apart and into laughter immediately, his arms around her to right himself, her arms crossed over his. The sound of it bounded off the tiled walls, the sweetest symphony he’d ever heard, and when it ended, he simply stayed, her long body reclining against him, her breath settling into rhythm with his.

If there was a heaven, or a ‘good place’, she was it.

* * *

They were lying in bed at last, the floor of the bathroom now free of extraneous water and her pajama pants on. She’d shyly asked if he would mind her not wearing a shirt to bed, to which he (and his crotch) had agreed. It would be torture, but if it meant she was more comfortable, he was willing to put up with it.

 _“… I remember how it sounds. The lilt of your voice when you picture her; the slow, jarring inhale the moment you see her and know it to be true… None of those nuances are lost on me. Every sigh, every joyous note is still etched into the recesses of my_ own _mind.”_

Thoughts of Aemon swirled through his head, and as always, his demeanor made it hard to hide.

“You okay?” Brienne posed, adjusting herself to lie on her back.

Shit. He’d been hoping to breach this topic later.

“It’s Aemon,” he admitted, rolling onto his right side to face her. “He, uh… He didn’t actually mention anything to my father about the job this morning. He was there to turn in his resignation.”

Her eyes grew wide, and his hand took hers instantly.

“It’s got nothing to do with the company, promise. He’s had heart failure for ten years, and his doctor thinks it’s time for him to prepare.”

“Oh.”

The silence that washed over them wasn’t uncomfortable, yet he could tell she was thinking too much.

“How old is he?” she wondered.

It took him a moment, and when he finally finished the math in his head, he huffed.

“About 93, maybe? He was in his mid-fifties in my earliest memories, and that was close to forty years ago.”

Aemon had known him for more than half a lifetime. That made even _Jaime_ feel old.

“Where will he go?” she pressed.

He sighed, lacing their fingers together.

“I don’t know. He doesn’t have anyone to take care of him, outside of nurses and housekeepers. Jon’s serving overseas, and Daenerys is only Sansa’s age.”

“Maybe he should stay with us,” she suggested. “I mean, I don’t know him very well, but if he’s family…”

Tywin’s words came back to him then:

_“You know how Targaryens prefer the heat.”_

Jaime squeezed her hand.

“I have a better idea.”

* * *

They approached Brienne’s father about it the following morning once the kids had been taken to school. Selwyn was initially obstinate, but when he understood Aemon’s situation and how much it mattered to Brienne, he relented.

“No one deserves to die alone,” he stated, placing his palms on the table. “Not even a Targaryen. We’ll have to arrange for help down there, and someone should look after the kids—”

“Marg and Olenna have already agreed to it,” Jaime declared. “If they need help, they can call Tyrion and Shae.”

“And what about your job?” Selwyn reminded. “You were supposed to start this coming Monday.”

The man had a point.

“I can call Royce. We’ll postpone my start date so I can spend a week or so with you all getting Aemon settled, and then I’ll come back here.” He looked at Brienne. “I’ll talk to my father, but you’re still healing, so it shouldn’t be an issue. Just let me know when it’s time. I want to be there.”

She nodded, and Selwyn turned to her.

“Is this really what you want, starlight?”

The breath she took was unsteady, but she nodded.

“It’s the right thing to do.”

For the first time since they’d mentioned Aemon, Selwyn tried to smile.

“Then it’s done.”

* * *

Aemon agreed to it without much fuss, much to Jaime’s amusement, and seemed eager to get to know Brienne and the children. He insisted that the first week be spent with them at Evenfall, which temporarily put Jaime and Brienne in the guest room, since Bran’s stairlift was already experiencing issues as the boy grew.

The children _adored_ the old man. They got up early to see him before school, and as soon as they walked through the door afterward, they were eager to help. Arya and Sansa enjoyed guiding him from place-to-place, letting him do for himself when he made it clear they were doing too much, and Bran would sit on the porch swing with him in the autumn air and read to him. Sometimes, Aemon would tell him stories about his father and mother, or his siblings…

“You never talk about Rhae,” Bran noticed one day while Jaime was sitting on the porch steps, doing some physical therapy. “I’ve heard you mention Aegon, Daeron, Aerion, and Daella, but not her. Why?”

A rough exhale slipped past the man’s lips as he undoubtedly chewed on his answer so the child could stomach it.

“The short answer is it hurts to think about her… About what our family did to her.” A pause, then— “The long answer is a story I think your grandfather would be better suited to tell.”

“But _you_ were there,” Bran insisted.

Jaime gave Bran a look that he hoped conveyed warning, and the boy understood.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

The old man’s hand patted Bran’s leg.

“Yes, you did. And it’s understandable. Not _all_ of my memories of her are tarnished by time and sadness.” Aemon closed his eyes. “I remember the day she was born… How tiny she was when I got to hold her in my arms. My baby sister...” His aquamarine eyes opened, tears glazing them as a smile touched his sunken cheeks. “I promised her I’d always look after her. She was the youngest member of our family, and when she got pregnant at seventeen, we knew she loved the man and would marry him without question.”

“Who was he?” Bran asked, enthralled.

“Lieutenant Duncan Pennytree. He served in Vietnam in—”

“I know who he was,” Bran said proudly. “Tyrion loaned me an old book about him a few months ago. I didn’t know he married a Targaryen, though.”

“He didn’t.”

The boy frowned at first, and then the realization of what might have happened, and why, dawned over his features.

“They disowned her, didn’t they?”

Aemon braced his hands on his knees, expanding his chest to breathe.

“I begged our parents to let her stay. I even tried talking to Pennytree’s parents on her behalf, but the newspapers had already sniffed her out. Perspectives of the matter at that time were so very narrow, and my family _hated_ scandal. They told her to leave D.C., so she changed her name to Blackfyre and moved to Savannah. I was only told what happened to her after that. She never answered my calls or letters.”

Bran fell silent, no doubt thinking what his life would be like without _his_ sisters.

“She got a job in an antique store owned by a woman named Maggie,” came the confident sound of Selwyn’s voice. Jaime turned to see the man standing in the doorway, his hands in his pockets. “Very dear woman. Gave her a job as soon as she laid eyes on her. Maggie was an old school friend of my father’s, and as mayor of Tarth, he’d invite her to parties and dinners he thought she’d enjoy. One night she brought this exquisite young woman and her little girl to a Christmas party at our house.” Selwyn sat in the chair by the swing, his forearms resting on his thighs. “Her daughter and I were about the same age, but we couldn’t have been more than six or seven at the time.” Selwyn grinned to himself. “I made the mistake of calling her ‘ocean eyes’, and she punched me, thinking I was calling her a crybaby.”

Jaime chuckled; Brienne’s mother, punching her father at their first meeting? He could easily believe it.

“Her mother eventually took over the store when Maggie passed, and saved enough money to send her to the same private school I attended. Rhiannon and I were sixteen when we met again. She didn’t remember me… Then one night, after a football game, she locked her keys in her car. It was late, and a storm was moving in, so I offered to drive her home, but she refused.” His hands clasped together, his fingers weaving through themselves. “I spent an hour in that thunderstorm trying to break into her car for her keys, only for her to agree to the ride. Her mother was furious with her until she learned who I was, and then laughed and invited me in to dry off by the fire. She told Rhi that she’d hit me once for complimenting her, and Rhi called me ‘stormboy’ every day after that. The rest is history.”

“She got into Yale, right?” Jaime tested.

“Yeah, but she wouldn’t have made it there without those scholarships,” Selwyn reiterated. “Rhi always was a bright young thing.”

“Like her mother,” Aemon murmured.

Selwyn hummed in agreement, and the men, young and old, sat through the mild chirps of crickets and smooth whirs of cars. Jaime wondered how long it would be before Selwyn figured out where a majority of those ‘scholarships’ had come from. Based on Aemon’s soft expression, the man was never meant to find out.

* * *

The drive to Tarth had been a rainy one, and they met the home hospice team at the house. Aemon was escorted inside, his white hair soaked from the rain, and even though he was shivering from the chill, he turned toward them and sightlessly waved, a dazzling smile on his face.

“I’ll stay with him,” Selwyn said, opening his door from where he was sitting in the back. “You two go grab dinner.”

Before they could protest, he’d shut the door and started for the porch.

“Any idea what that’s about?” Jaime inquired.

Brienne merely smiled, placing her hands on the steering wheel once more and pulling away from the curb.

“I’ve got a hunch.”

* * *

When they returned with take-out, the two men were sitting on the couch in the dark, and the joyful sound of a woman laughing echoed through the television speakers. Jaime placed the bag he was carrying on the table and noticed a _very_ pregnant woman in her early thirties on the boxy screen, jogging along the very beach he and the Starks had visited during their first trip to Tarth. Her hair was a pale blonde, her skin a snowy white, and her eyes…

There was no mistaking her for anything but a Targaryen.

“Come on, Stormboy!” she called.

A hearty chuckle came from behind the camera that Jaime recognized at once as Selwyn’s, and he realized what he was seeing.

“Gal, hey, Gal…”

Suddenly, a toddler with golden hair came into view, and his grin lit the room better than any fixture could.

“Go to mommy.” 

The boy took off, and Selwyn followed them with the camera. When the boy reached her, she went to her knees and caught him in her arms, laying him across her chest and showering him with kisses. Galladon’s joyful giggles brought a smile to Jaime’s lips, and he felt Brienne take his left hand from where she was standing, her own attention diverted to the film.

“When did they say Alice will hit?” Rihannon questioned, her gaze focused out over the breaking waves that were lapping at her knees.

“Sometime this weekend.”

“God, I hope not,” she grumbled, the wind whipping her shoulder-length hair away from her face. “I’m due on Sunday.”

“All the best children are storm-born.” The angle evened out with her concerned face as Selwyn knelt in front of her. “She’ll be fine, Rhi. And so will you.”

She chortled, a smirk glimmering where the uneasiness had been.

“I’m more worried about the midwife getting to us in a flood than delivering in one.”

“Will she take a boat?” Gal questioned.

His dad snickered, and his mother grinned, brushing his bangs out of his eyes.

“Maybe. Could you draw us one?”

As the boy nodded and took off to find a sandy canvas, Jaime sniffed, realizing for the first time that there were a few tears sliding along his cheeks. He cleared his throat and turned away when the screen went blue, the VHS having reached the end of its recorded material, releasing Brienne’s hand so he could start taking the to-go boxes out of the bag. He wiped the dampness away before the lights were turned on, busying himself with the plastic cutlery at the bottom of the bag…

But it did nothing to rid his mind of the image of a taller woman with sapphire eyes, running along the same beach and just as pregnant, their son gaily chasing after her and the clouds claiming her queen of their light.

* * *

He collapsed rather than climbed into bed that evening, weathered and worn from the rainy drive down from D.C. Another week of healing had done her good, and she’d removed her bra and changed clothes much more easily than she had the previous week, each section of bruises now either faded completely or a light brown that signified recovery. He was relieved that the damage Locke had done wasn’t permanent…

“Are you okay?” she asked, turning off the bedside lamp.

His eyebrows creased.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Her gentle smile as she climbed into bed disarmed him.

“I’m fine. I used to watch it before we moved so I could remember their faces. You don’t have to feel sorry for me.”

“That’s not what upset me.”

She frowned.

“Then why did—”

“Because—” He inhaled, checking his tone. “Because… I never knew I could want something so much.”

Her gorgeous eyes became placid waters, her understanding as deep as the sea itself, and he couldn’t take it. He rolled onto his back away from her, the tears from earlier clawing at his throat. Of all things to ask of her... He couldn’t. Not after everything she’d done for him.

God, why wouldn’t the tears just fucking _stop?_

“Jaime—”

“How long have you known what _really_ happened to the Starks?” he demanded, too exhausted to fight it anymore when his stare met her own. “And why did you let me in anyway? You could have kept me at arm’s length like the rest of them. You could have pushed me away, or let me take that drink when Myrcella died. Nobody else cared. But you…” His hand went to his eyes, stubbornly wiping away the tracks that couldn’t be derailed. “You _knew_ what happened to the Starks, didn’t you? And even when you found out about Cersei, you never stopped trying. I don’t have the right to ask for anything more than this.” A breath shook itself free from his lungs as his eyes shut her out. “It’s easier not to want it.”

The silence that followed for about a minute cut him to the bone, and he shifted and sniffled like the child he felt himself to be, about to roll over—

“I’ve known about the Starks since the first day. The first five minutes in your father’s office, he admitted to it.”

So, he was right; she’d always known.

“I let you in because I saw someone who was _trying._ Someone who didn’t _want_ to give up, but felt like he had no choice, and had next to no one to tell him to keep going.” Her weight shifted toward him, and the touch of her hand on his stump broke the veneer of his doubt. “You helped me with paperwork because I needed it, even when it must have been a pain in the ass because of your dyslexia… Even when _I_ was a pain in the ass. You let me take care of Myrcella, and never blamed me for what happened to her despite how much it hurt you.”

The memory of his sweet, sweet girl, panicked and unable to breathe, rent through him like a scalpel through flesh, and he choked back a sob, pinching the bridge of his nose with his only hand. Her grip on his stump tightened.

“You put your life on the line for me not once, but _twice._ You beat Ron Connington to a pulp for what he did to me. You were there for me through the miscarriage… You’ve protected and cared for the Starks like they’re your own, and they love you for it.” She paused. “I think I might too…”

While part of him yearned to hear those three words so his anxiety would quell itself, this was _Brienne;_ it took more than a year to earn her unequivocal trust, and he’d only told her of his feelings a little over two weeks ago.

_“… I’d rather wait to hear it from you when you’re ready.”_

And he’d meant it. He’d waited this long for her trust; he could wait a little longer. Because _he_ loved _her._ That was all that mattered.

His hand moved to hers as it covered his stump, hoping it spoke of the apology he couldn’t voice at the moment.

“We’ve _both_ worked hard for this, so don’t ever feel like you can’t ask that of me,” she continued. “If anyone deserves to want it, it’s you.” He could feel her lips curve upward in the shift of the air around him. “Besides, I might like that too someday.”

Did that mean…?

He stole a glance at her, too afraid to hope for it, yet all she did was smile.

“You’d be a wonderful father, Jaime. And if you’re going to argue with me about that too, I’ll call the kids right now and let them deal with you.”

A smile of his own skimmed his lips at her sensible, Brienne-like response, his insecurity dissolving beneath her reasoning, and he rolled onto his side toward her as she cupped his face, sweeping his tears away with her calloused thumbs. The moonlight caressed her skin, the diamonds in her eyes daring him enough to do something, and the way those gems blunted their shine as darkness overtook them brought his hand to her waist, and his mouth to her own.

She moaned at the contact, moving her body closer to his on the mattress, deepening the kiss as her pelvis ground against his hardening pajama seam. The way she lifted her right leg to increase the available surface area for their friction brought stars to the backs of his eyelids, his mouth breaking away as he gasped out his need.

Of course, she took that opportunity to untie his pajama bottoms, showering his neck with kisses that he prayed wouldn’t leave any marks her father would see in the morning.

No problem with Aemon seeing anything, though, which would be even _more_ embarrassing, considering how long the man had known him.

He chuckled at the thought, only to realize she was pulling the comforter back so she could tug on the waistband of his pants. When he lifted his hips, the elated grin she gave as she pulled them from his legs drove him mad.

“Come here…”

It was less of a command, and more of a growled suggestion. The idea that this soldier, all muscle and purity, was disrobing him, and might someday want to carry _his_ child—

She moved her body to straddle him, her ‘t-shirt only' policy this evening exacerbating the pressure and heat of solely their underwear between them. The rightness of her long legs folded on either side of his body, creating more heat as she adjusted herself, forced a groan from his mouth that she stifled with her hand.

“Shh…”

When she leaned forward to kiss him, her braid swung over her shoulder, brushing his chest and setting him aflame with longing. His left hand went to her cheek, his knuckles caressing the freckled skin they found there as she placed her weight on both hands—

She made a pained sound, sitting up immediately and clutching her left side. He followed suit, sitting up in the bed and steadying her with his left arm.

“Ribs?”

She bit her bottom lip and nodded, but her eyes were still as black as the night over the isle… And he had no intentions of dawn seeing her so soon.

“Here,” he whispered, moving her off of him to lie on her back.

It took a moment to position himself over her the way he wanted to, the weight he placed on the length of his right forearm odd, yet bearable. When he looked down at her, she almost seemed fearful, so he kissed her forehead, leaning all his weight on his right arm so he could cup her cheek.

“‘Someday…?’” he quoted.

He earned a small, shy smile in response, so he closed the distance between them and kissed her as thoroughly as he could from that angle, her height making it easier to transition from her mouth to her jaw, and her neck, her collarbone…

Using his left hand, he lifted her shirt up and over her breasts, which were just as perfect as he remembered from the bath, her small nipples stiffening beneath the foreign air. He wasted no time, bending his head to taste one, the glorious feel of her beneath his tongue causing him to grind himself against her leg. Her breath was uneven, her torso arching to give him more access, and she stifled moans he desperately wanted to hear by pressing her lips together in a thin line. One hand in his hair kept scratching his scalp and tugging his hair, and the other tangled itself in the sheets, grasping for purchase, telling him what she’d sound like regardless of the circumstances. Before he lost his mind and took her there, in her father’s house, he sacrificed his reverence of her upper body for the greater purpose at hand.

Kissing her above, below, and on each side of her belly button made her squirm with a quieter version of the giggles he’d learned about in the bathtub, but she went still with anticipation as he hooked his thumb in her panties. Raising an eyebrow in question, he gave her the choice, and after only a moment’s hesitation, she lifted her lower body so he could remove them. As he began to pull them off, he was reminded of the incredible length of her legs, and the power and muscle beneath her supple skin.

But he couldn’t ignore the way moonbeams shone against her left inner thigh, illuminating the remnant of the wound that had nearly taken her life. Realizing that, in a way, he owed his own life to the twisted piece of flesh, he tossed her panties on the floor and traced its length with his fingers. When he placed the palm of his left hand against it, its purity extended beyond the tips of his fingers, and he met her eyes.

“You’re sure?” he breathed.

She nodded distractedly, reaching for him. He obliged her, coming back up for a kiss, settling himself between her legs and allowing himself to feel how wet she was through his underwear. _God,_ it would be so easy to slip free and bury himself to the hilt inside her, moving until she soundlessly cried his name… But if she couldn’t bear her own weight on her arms just yet, she certainly couldn’t withstand _that_ level of activity.

He kissed a brief trail down to the patch of neatly trimmed hair at the end of the road, and after he knelt between her knees he closed his eyes, taking a second to revel in the fact that he, of all people, would get to do this for her.

Unlike—well, _anyone,_ he suspected—she smelled sweet, and he felt himself twitch with need at the mere idea of what he could do. But first, he had unfinished business to which he should attend.

Looping his shortened arm around her left thigh to keep her stable, he traced the puckered edges of the unblemished white scar from one end to the other, peeking at her to see if he was crossing a boundary he shouldn’t. She didn’t seem sad, or upset; in fact, if he didn’t know any better, he’d say she looked enraptured.

“I love you…” he spoke against her skin, his lower body craving her the way his gut would crave a drink.

He changed patterns, dotting the satiny surface with reverent kisses, recalling the first time he’d ever seen it and wishing he could go back and change what he’d said by the river that day. As he began to add tongue to his kisses, the whimper she let out told him the journey they’d taken to get here was their own, and might not have had the same outcome if he’d done anything differently.

“Jaime, please…” she rasped.

Pressing a final kiss to her scar, he changed his intent slowly, leaving his right arm around her thigh and using his only hand to tease her by running a single finger down her seam, waiting for her to become so full of yearning that _she_ called the shots. It worked, her breath shuddering, uneven, and shallow. The reaction fascinated him, and when he parted her, allowing his middle finger to brush over her bud on its descent, she quietly whined.

When he saw the knuckles of one hand go white, her beard-reddened breasts shaking with her chest, he knew it was time.

His mouth started to methodically taste her, looping her bud with his tongue and descending to her essence. The noises she made gradually became more audible, but only so, and the pressure his crotch was using as it rhythmically ground into the bed increased. His cock caught the edge of the mattress once, and he moaned into her flesh at the surprising tightness it caused. Her hips leapt up from the bed then, her hands going to his hair, tugging and demanding more from him as her head fell away from her shoulders.

 _Fuck,_ she was beautiful.

When he made it a point to suck her bud now and then, occasionally laving it with his tongue, her legs would pull in toward his head, and her pelvis would thrust forward, begging him for release. She made a magnificent sound when he gently inserted two fingers, trying to find the perfect angle as he rubbed himself harder against the mattress, the lower position of his body only drawing him closer, closer…

Her legs began to shake, and he felt a hand leave his hair to fist in the sheet as her pelvis went wild, pressing herself against his mouth as her climax took her. Her lips parted in a silent scream, and her entire upper body left the bed to clutch at his head, her own collapsing to her chest as she rode it out.

The way her features had twisted in pleasure sent him spiraling like a teenager, his forehead buried in her inner thigh while he groaned as silently as he could. The only color in his mind’s eye for a few moments was a bright, sapphire blue…

The feeling of her fingers running through his hair stirred him, a sign that she was through, and he climbed up the bed, exposing his ruined underwear.

“You’re good at being quiet,” she observed.

He chuckled.

“So are you.”

The quip he expected to follow never came, and instead, she rose, went to the small bathroom they were sharing with her father, and cleaned up. He did the same when she was done, and rather than put on new pajama bottoms, he climbed back into bed in only a new pair of underwear, the way he would… Well, _before._

“I wanted to do more,” she confessed, tugging the comforter over her shoulder. “Not that it wasn’t wonderful, but I’d enjoy it if we could… You know.”

He playfully raised his eyebrows.

“Do share.”

A roll of her blue-once-again eyes with a smile told him she knew he was provoking her.

“When I do… _partake…_ it’s more enjoyable for me if the man enjoys it too.”

“I thought I made it pretty clear that I—”

“Not like that,” she clarified. “I mean, I want to feel it _with_ you.”

_Oh._

“The way you lost yourself in the end… I didn’t get to experience it like this. That’s part of what makes it special for me.”

God _,_ he wished she was healed. The idea of forgetting himself inside her, and her _enjoying_ it, her capable arms holding him steady as his climax took his body—

“Soon, then?” he ventured.

Her right hand went to his cheek, combing his hair back from his face.

“Soon,” she agreed, her fingers lingering on his cheek. “But promise me you’ll work on something.”

“Hmm?”

The way she stared at him then, full of expectation and longing, almost killed him.

“Believe you’re worthy of love.”

His eyes pressed closed, and his hand covered her own.

“This isn’t going to work if you can’t bring yourself to believe me," she carried on, "and I’m not sure saying it is going to make a difference if you’re going to run the second that I do. I don’t want you to feel like you can’t want something from me, because most of the time, I want the same things.” Her voice trembled, and he made it a point to open his eyes, noting that her own were shining with tears. “If you run from them…” A few fell as she determined what she needed to say. “Wanting things together is so much better than wanting them alone, and I don’t think I can go back to that.”

She roughly exhaled, then sniffled, moving to take her hand away, and he held it fast, because she was right. He may have been the one to risk his physical being, but in the end, if he couldn’t accept _her_ sacrifices and efforts at face value, what was the point? He knew about Ron, and Hyle, and that what they had just done was a gargantuan step for her. After a year of giving her his most vulnerable side, she’d handed him the most delicate parts of herself, and he’d tried to give them back.

The same way she’d tried to give back his sobriety coin. And damn, had that hurt.

 _“It’s yours, you know. It will_ always _be yours.”_

He brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them, letting them go so he could wipe away her tears.

“I’ll work on it,” he conceded. “And if I forget, remind me…?”

The way she pressed her lips into a thin line, nodding in consent, made him want to hold her, so he did, repositioning himself close enough that she could nestle her head in the crook of his shoulder.

“Do you think he could see it in his mind?” she mused.

Jaime was thoroughly perplexed.

“We were pretty quiet, so I don’t think anyone could—”

“I’m not talking about _that,”_ she emphasized with a swat to the chest and a smirk. “Do you think Aemon could see what was happening in the video?”

“Probably. He’s been blind for close to twenty years, so he’s well-adapted.”

She took a breath and smiled into his skin.

“Are you going back tomorrow?” she asked. “Aemon’s settled, and I’d hate for you to make a bad first impression at work…”

“And you’re worried Olenna and Margaery aren’t capable of looking after the kids alone.”

As always, she bit her bottom lip the way she would when she was feeling embarrassed, so he reached out to her, taking her hand in his own beneath the covers like they did at home and linking their fingers together over his abdomen.

“I’ll go back tomorrow to help them. Did you leave Sandor’s number in the dresser?”

“Of course.”

“Good. I may need reinforcement now and then.”

The grin she gave him as she laughed without sound filled his dreams for the night, and painted his mind with its splendor on the plane back to D.C. the following afternoon.

* * *

“You’d think you could drive back on your own by now,” Olenna groused, pulling away from the curb of the airport.

“Mamaw, _please,”_ Margaery beseeched, throwing Jaime an apologetic look from the front passenger seat. “You know it only happened a month ago. Besides, I _offered_ to drive. The least you could do is ask him how it went.”

“Very well, how did it go?”

Jaime cleared his throat.

“Aemon’s happy to be somewhere warmer than here, and I think Brienne’s grateful to have the time with him.”

“And are you looking forward to work?” the old woman pressed. “Royce was telling me he’s eager to get started with your training.”

Geez, the biddy really did have the entire population under her thumb, didn’t she?

“Yeah, I suppose. It’ll be nice to get back to a routine.”

“Well, the kids are going to be glad to have you back so soon,” Margaery said, doing her best to continue the conversation. “We could use the help too, couldn’t we, Mamaw?”

The woman fell silent, focusing on the network of roads she was being told to navigate by her GPS, so Jaime just gave Margaery a congenial smile and stared out the window, the city lights shining through the waning daylight.

* * *

The kids had already eaten dinner, and as soon as they saw him come in the door, the girls made room for him on the couch beside Ghost.

“Come on,” Bran beckoned from the armchair. “We left you some nachos, and they’ve got jalapeños on them, just the way you like! We’re about to start season three of ‘The Good Place’, and Margaery said it only gets better from here.”

The Tyrells trudged upstairs, ready to retire for the evening and leave him in charge. He’d just gotten comfortable when the sound of the doorbell boxed everyone’s ears, and Sansa paused the show so he could see who it was. Glancing at the clock on the wall, it was already 7:45, and he had no idea who’d be visiting at this hour.

The peephole was useless with the autumn wreath that had been hung, so he swung the door wide to see a young man, several inches shorter than him, holding a small parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. His black hair was unkempt and his sharp features were accentuated by sky blue eyes that were familiar, but not in a way Jaime could place. He was sweaty, like he’d just finished a run, and he obviously hadn’t been expecting a man to open the door, as evidenced by the way he took a step back in mild fear.

“Can I help you?” Jaime questioned.

“Oh, I, um…” Who _was_ this kid? “I was wondering if Arya was home. I’ve got something for her.”

Jaime felt the bridge of his nose wrinkle in confusion.

“I’m sorry, do I know you?”

“You’re joking, right?” Arya scoffed from behind him.

He turned to see the teenager leaning in the doorway, aiming daggers at the stranger with her hazel eyes.

“Who is this?” Jaime reiterated.

Arya sighed.

“Jaime, Gendry. Gendry, Jaime,” she hurriedly explained, less than happy to see the boy. “Why are _you_ here?”

He hadn’t been expecting questions, which was interesting, and the flustered look on his face… the offense, the embarrassment, the inability to form words... it struck Jaime at once where he’d seen the boy before. Well, not the _boy,_ maybe, but his likeness.

Only a Baratheon could be so handsome, yet so dumbfounded by a woman.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events of this chapter were inspired by 'Welcome Home' by Radical Face and 'For Stormboy' by Rhiannon Bannenberg. Believe it or not, I heard the latter studying for nursing school one night and said, "That sounds like Selwyn to me." When I saw it had been written by a woman named Rhiannon, I had to include it in the Selwyn/Rhiannon love story. I listened to it repeatedly while I fleshed out their story, and also when I was writing the VHS segment. 
> 
> It didn't play as huge a role, but the whole 'why would the stars want to look down on such as me' bit was definitely the result of a personal moment I had to overcome this past week on top of the release of Halsey and Marshmello's new single, 'Be Kind'. Definitely meant for everyone with trust issues, and I would go listen, if I were you. :)
> 
> As always, kudos, comments, and bookmarks are appreciated. Thank you for sticking with me! More to come soon!


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